


Distance Makes the Heart

by Piscaria



Category: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005)
Genre: CatCF, Charlie/Wonka, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2005-11-09
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 08:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 76,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after Charlie wins the Golden Ticket, Wonka asks him to leave the factory. As he comes to terms with the world outside, Charlie begins to re-examine his relationship to the factory and to Willy Wonka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> As with all of my Wonka fiction, I've taken my inspiration primarily from the 2005 movie _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_. However, I feel no qualms about borrowing certain details from the books or from the 1971 movie when it suits me. As I've said before, my Wonka is five parts Depp, two parts Wilder, one part Dahl, and a splash of pure imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Reibish and Wonkafan89 for looking over this for me!

Charlie stared out the window as the plane began its slow descent down to the airport, trying to breathe deeply as the nervousness that had haunted him throughout the plane ride now blossomed into outright panic. Three months had passed since Charlie had last seen the chocolate factory, three months since he'd spoken to the Oompa-Loompas or nibbled swudge in the chocolate room. Three months since he'd seen his family, though he spoke to them on the phone twice a week and wrote to them religiously. It had been three months since he'd seen Willy Wonka.

They'd spoken on the phone last night, only their second real conversation since Charlie had left the factory. Wonka hated telephones, and Charlie couldn't bear to talk to the chocolatier without studying his face beneath the top hat. On the phone, Willy Wonka sounded flat and slightly hesitant; the full charm of his personality only came through in person. On the phone last night, Wonka had offered to come and get Charlie in the Great Glass Elevator, and Charlie had refused for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"It's such a long journey," he'd said. "And it's been so long since you've taken the elevator over the Atlantic. Besides, you'd have to stand the whole way."

"I wouldn't have to," Wonka said. His voice had sounded almost shy over the phone. "I could push your grandparents' old bed inside again." Misinterpreting the cause of Charlie's sudden silence, Wonka hurried to say, "It wouldn't have to be their bed! Any old bed would do. Or a couple of armchairs. Or --"

"You needn't bother," Charlie said. "Really. I don't mind taking the plane. And I know that you'll have important things to do."

Silence. Charlie had been hoping that Wonka would protest that nothing was more important than bringing Charlie home again. But Wonka didn't. Instead he said, in a slightly hollow voice, "Well, if you're sure then . . ."

"I am," Charlie said.

And that had been that.

Now Charlie leaned forward in his plane seat and watched as the passengers around him began to gather their belongings and stow away their books and laptops in preparation for landing. He glanced at the old woman sleeping in the seat next to his, and nudged her gently.

She started awake, blinking up at him with her rheumy blue eyes. "Is it time for lunch?" she mumbled.

"No," he said, pushing back the sudden pain at her resemblance to his Grandma Georgina. "We'll be landing shortly."

"You're such a good boy," she said, and promptly began to doze again. Charlie smiled tightly, and stared out the window. He could see the city below, the airport growing steadily closer, the lot where he and his parents had once lived, which was now home to a shopping center. And dominating the city, as it had dominated his life, was the factory, its tall chimneys churning chocolate-scented smoke into the air. Charlie stared down at it, feeling his insides beginning to twist. For a panicked moment, he wished he were back in his dorm room.

The plane shuddered as its wheels touched down, and the stewardess' voice came over the intercom, thanking everybody for flying with them. Charlie nudged the old woman awake again, and watched as she tottered down the aisle, gigantic purse in hand. He reluctantly began to gather his own luggage, stowing his sketchbook and drawing pencils in his satchel and standing to retrieve the single, small suitcase that he'd brought home with him for the holidays. The other passengers had left the plane. He could feel the stewardesses staring at him as he reluctantly started towards the terminal.

Nobody had paid him much attention at the airport in America. There he was one more art student making his way home for the Christmas holiday. But as he stepped out of the tunnel here and into the airport, Charlie could hear the whispers starting.

"That's him!"

"Is it?"

"_That's_ the Wonka heir?"

Charlie did his best to ignore them, lifting his chin and gathering his suitcase closer to him. He'd never quite acquired Wonka's deliberate flamboyance, although he had learned how to craft his natural shyness into a careful shield of disdain. He hadn't needed it at college: there he'd found that he could once again be Charlie Bucket, quiet, maybe, and just a tad eccentric, but average. Unimportant. Here, he was Charlie Bucket, the Wonka heir, and as he felt himself slipping back into that role, the familiar mantle of distance settled around his shoulders. He straightened his spine, narrowed his eyes, and scanned the faces watching him, relieved to find two familiar people amidst the crowd of strangers.

"Mum! Dad!"

He raced towards them, and they swept him into a tight embrace. His mother was crying, wiping her eyes with the back of one gloved hand, and his father's smile looked suspiciously tight.

"Oh Charlie," his mother sniffed. "I'm so glad you're home!"

Charlie pulled away from them, glancing around the terminal. "Where's . . . ?" he let the question trail off. There could be no missing that top hat or the velvet coat, no way he could have missed spotting Wonka in the crowd. His parents looked at each other, and his father opened his mouth to make some excuse, but Charlie didn't hear it.

Willy Wonka hadn't come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my betas!

Until he found the golden ticket, Charlie had lived in a world made up of homework and cabbage soup, of itchy sweaters that never actually managed to keep him warm, of outgrown clothes and pinching shoes, and of the factory standing in the distance like an empty promise. When he met Willy Wonka, that world exploded in a technicolor burst, spilling open with song and the taste of chocolate. Yet neither the chocolate factory nor his life before it had in any way prepared Charlie for the Pacific Northwest.

He'd stepped off his plane in America to find the limo driver waiting by the baggage claim as promised, holding a cardboard sign that read, "Charlie." The man had greeted him absently, lifted his suitcases, and quietly steered him through the Sea-Tac airport and into the parking lot, where the drizzling sky exactly matched Charlie's mood.

Charlie helped the driver load his luggage into the trunk, and then he scooted into the backseat. As the limo pulled out of the airport parking lot, Charlie glared out the window and proceeded to mentally curse Willy Wonka, first in English, then switching into Oompa-Loompish as he ran out of insults in his own language. Some of the Oompa-Loompish curses came with particularly satisfying hand gestures, and Charlie stabbed his way through them with a feeling of righteous indignation. He was glad that the screen shielded him from the driver's eyes.

Once the anger ran its course, indignation gave way to homesickness, and Charlie slumped against the limousine's window. His mind flashed to a sunny afternoon three years before, when Wonka had taken him to town on one of their rare outings.

_"Shoulders back, Charlie," Wonka whispers, and Charlie hurries to comply, trying hard not to notice the many stares directed in their direction. Wonka's arm is warm against his own; his gloved hand rests gently on Charlie's forearm. Charlie draws nearer to the chocolatier as they walk, wanting to draw some of Wonka's bravery into himself, wanting to seem proud and unconcerned, as Wonka does, for all that Charlie can feel his hand shaking with nervous tremors. All around them, people are openly gawking, though whether in curiosity or disapproval, Charlie can't quite tell._

_Walking the street arm in arm, Wonka and his heir are always enough to draw a crowd. They are of a height now, both fine-boned and slim, and by now Charlie's skin is almost as pale as Wonka's. Today Charlie is wearing the frock coat Wonka loves, although he privately prefers his leather bomber's jacket. His black velvet isn't nearly as eye-catching as Wonka's favorite plum, but the cut alone is enough to draw attention. Dressed like Wonka (though he has outright refused to wear a top hat), with Wonka's arm linked through his own and Wonka's quiet voice in his ear, Charlie briefly wonders if he is only an extension of the other man, a darker, quieter shadow through which some measure of Wonka's brilliance can linger in the world, even after Wonka himself is gone. But this thought brings a lump to Charlie's throat, so he brushes it away, preferring to concentrate on the man beside him, who has leaned close, once more, to whisper instructions in Charlie's ear._

_"Just pretend not to notice them," Wonka says. "You're a chocolatier now, my boy. You don't have to live in their world. You don't have to care what they like, or don't like. Nothing they do, or say, or think can touch you. I've made you a new world, Charlie. A better one. It's my world, Charlie, yours and mine, and as long as you remember that you're safe there, in the factory, nothing outside can possibly reach you."_

Since he'd moved into the factory, Charlie had wanted nothing more than to understand Wonka's world, to be a part of it. He'd had his fill of the city outside, where you shivered in your bed at night while your stomach clenched with hunger. Charlie had always craved something else, that elusive smell that drifted into his bedroom through the cracks in the ceiling, the taste that exploded over his tongue just once a year. Chocolate, of course, though even as a child, Charlie had known that the chocolate itself only symbolized something far more important -- Possibility. Willy Wonka had given that to him, not just one bar or two, but a whole factory of it, a new and startling world to slip into, explore, and even improve. For that, Charlie would love him forever. But after he had dismantled Charlie's world, brick by brick, and replaced it with a new one made entirely of light and dark chocolate, Willy Wonka had thrust Charlie out of the factory, back into the old world, cold and unforgiving. And for that, Charlie thought, he hated the man.

Charlie's hands clenched into fists on his lap, and he glared out the window, watching the clusters of pine trees grow thicker as the limo made its way up the I-5 corridor. He had only a vague idea of where campus was located. North of Seattle, the brochure had read, and Charlie hadn't bothered to learn any more than that. Up until the moment he boarded the plane, Charlie had secretly hoped that the whole thing might be some complicated and ill-planned joke of Wonka's. Even now, he half suspected that the chocolatier might peek his head around the front seat, saying, "Charlie, my boy, of course I wasn't serious." Charlie would be upset, but he'd forgive him, and they'd go back to the factory, and everything would be as it was before.

But Wonka remained where Charlie had left him, an ocean and a continent away. Alone, Charlie slumped against the car window, hating every moment of the journey that took him further away from the factory and closer to Fuller College.

Still, he was a little let down when the limo pulled onto campus and parked in the gravel lot near Charlie's dorm. As painful as the journey had been, it had at least been only that: a journey. Climbing out of the limo, Charlie stared up at the brick building that was to be his home for the next year, and a new and dizzying wave of homesickness washed over him.He didn't belong here, in this country, on this campus, with no family to love him, no Wonka to inspire him, no Oompa-Loompas to sing about his inevitable mistakes. Charlie stood frozen in place, blinking back tears, until the cab driver coughed quietly, reminding him that there were things now to be done.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Charlie helped the driver unload his luggage, and together they walked up the path to Walden Hall.

It was a tall brick building with the door propped open. Charlie followed a short hallway down to a student lounge where a bored-looking girl his own age sat behind a table.

"Name?" she asked him, and he swallowed.

"Bucket," he said. "Charlie Bucket."

She filed through a stack of paperwork until she found his name, then nodded. "Charlie Bucket. You're in room 213-A. Sign here please," she said, showing him the rental agreement. "And here." She pointed to the key check-out form.

He scribbled his name in the places she indicated, and she handed him two small bronze keys. He took them, and threaded them onto the ring that held his many factory keys. They glinted there, tiny and dull amidst the more fanciful keys to the factory.

"That's quite a key ring," the girl said, and Charlie shrugged, not wanting to explain about the factory. How could he? As long as he held the keys in his pocket, he could remember that he hadn't left it. Not entirely. At least, not unless Willy Wonka had lied to him. At the thought, a wave of panic overtook him, and Charlie closed his eyes, until he felt the curious stares of the girl and the limo driver boring into him.

"Sorry," he mumbled, opening his eyes. The girl smiled at him, her boredom replaced by concern. "It's okay," she said. "Nearly everyone's homesick at first. It takes awhile to get used to this place. You'll love it, though, once you get your bearings. We all do." Her eyes swept over the papers on the table, and she smiled. "It looks like you have a single room," she said.

Charlie nodded. Wonka had given him that much, at least.

"But like you saw in the brochure," the girl continued, "you'll be sharing a communal living space with four other students. Two of your suitemates have already arrived, and the rest should be checking in shortly. The square key will open both the door to your suite and the door to your room itself. It also works in your mailbox, which is right over there." She pointed to the wall of mailboxes behind her. "The round key will open the door to this building." Charlie nodded, committing the facts to memory.

"Your suite is up those stairs and to the left," she said. "Do you have any questions?"

He shook his head.

"All right," she said. "My name is Gretchen, and I'm your Resident Advisor. I'm just across the hall from you, so feel free to stop by if you need anything."

"Okay," Charlie said. Signaling the limo driver to follow him, he started up the brief staircase.

The door to suite 213 was already propped open, and Charlie stepped inside to find a short hallway with that ended in a small living/kitchen area. A tall tattooed boy was lounging against the dorm-issued couch, flipping through what seemed to be a book of philosophy. But as Charlie entered, he set the book down and rose to his feet.

"John?" he ventured.

Charlie shook his head, too nervous to speak. Even Wonka's studied strangeness couldn't quite compare to this boy, whose blond hair was twisted into several small braids and whose thick neck was traced vaguely tribal-looking tattoos.

"Then you must be Charlie!" the boy said, and Charlie nodded, reaching automatically to take the thick hand that was offered to him.

"I'm Mark," his suitemate said. "It's good to meet you."

Charlie smiled nervously, and glanced around the suite. There were two of the orange dorm-issued couches arranged around a beat-up coffee table. A small dining table with a handful of plastic chairs was placed near the kitchen area, and in the kitchen itself, he could see a stove and sink. A six-pack of beer sat on the counter, and the sight made Charlie's pulse race. Wonka limited his vices to chocolate, and Charlie's parents never drank alcohol.

Four doors led out of the living area. The sign on one said, "Charlie," in blue die-cut letters. The second and third doors read, "Mark and John," and "Isabelle and Amy," respectively. Charlie blinked. He hadn't realized that he was going to be sharing his suite with girls. The fourth door was blank. Later he would learn that it led into the communal bathroom.

"You might as well unload your stuff," Mark said. "I showed up yesterday, so I'm already done unpacking. Amy's around. You'll meet up with her eventually. Isabelle and John should show up this afternoon."

Charlie nodded. "All right."

"Yell if you need anything," Mark said, and settled back onto the couch with his book.

Charlie glanced apprehensively at the limo driver, then crossed the living room to open the door to his bedroom. It was small, consisting of a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. Charlie dropped his suitcase on the floor, and turned to pay the limo driver. Once the man had left, Charlie shut the door behind him. He couldn't deal with his suitemate, he thought. Not yet. It had been too long since he had needed to deal with anybody besides his family or Wonka.

Instead, Charlie sat on the corner of the mattress and reached for the largest of his suitcases, thinking that he should, at the very least, put some sheets on his bed. He couldn't handle unpacking, not yet, but he needed to keep himself busy lest the thought of where he was (or rather, where he wasn't) catch up with him. But instead of the sheets, his hand closed around a small, square shape that he hadn't remembered packing.

Frowning, Charlie withdrew a small paper-wrapped package. "Charlie," it read on the front in large block letters. Beneath it, in slightly smaller writing, "Absolutely NOT to be opened until you have arrived on campus!" The "not" was underlined three times.

Charlie bit his lip, and carefully peeled the tape off of the package. Inside the box was another, smaller box, and a letter. He withdrew the letter first, unfolding it with trembling hands. For a moment, the sight of Wonka's familiar handwriting was enough to make him catch his breath with loneliness. But then he inhaled deeply, and started to read.  


> My very dear Charlie,
> 
> Unless you have entirely disregarded the instructions on the front of this parcel (which you won't, because you are my Charlie and a good nut), you will by now have arrived safely on campus. You are probably still quite angry with me. Perhaps you have even called me some of the names the Oompa-Loompas taught you over the summer. For that, I don't blame you in the slightest. Sending you away from the factory was an absolutely horrible thing to do. Even if you called me a knock-kneed Snozzwhanger or a the Fruit-Eating Son of a Blind Whangdoodle, I would deserve it. If it helps, Charlie, know that I am at least as miserable as you are, maybe even more. You have begun a grand adventure, while I remain at home in the factory, where every single room now reminds me of you. I do wish that I could bring you home this instant.
> 
> But sometimes, Charlie, it is a very bad idea to make our wishes come true, and by now, I know the difference between a good and bad idea. Perhaps someday you will understand my reasons for sending you away for a year. Until then, you will simply have to trust me. But please believe me when I say that I am not at all mad at you. In fact, nothing pleases me more than to know how very angry you are that I sent you away from the factory, or that you would like nothing more right now than to come home. By this, you show me once again that the factory will be safe in your hands once I am gone. You are my heir, my partner, and my dearest friend. I shall miss you horribly while you are away, and nothing shall make me happier than to see you once again in the factory where you belong.
> 
> Until then, I remain yours,  
>  Willy Wonka

Charlie lay the letter on the mattress beside him, a mass of conflicting emotions rising in his throat. Fear, anger, loneliness, love. They snarled together in the painful knot that now meant Willy Wonka to him, and struggling to swallow it down, he lifted the small box out of the package.

It was fastened with a bright red ribbon, and he carefully untied it. Opening the lid of the box, he discovered a pocket watch nestled amongst a pile of soft pink cotton candy. Charlie sniffled a little, and lifted the watch out. It was exactly like Wonka's, from the sprawling W engraved on the brass cover to the delicate chain attached to it. In fact, Charlie discovered, it was Wonka's. Turning it over, he saw the brief message engraved on the back.

_To my son Willy,_  
_Best wishes for a bright future._  
_Wilbur Wonka, DDS_

Beneath it was a new message, in a different script.

_My dear Charlie,_  
_Until we meet again._  
_Willy Wonka_

Tears burned Charlie's eyes, and he opened the pocket watch carefully. There were the hands, carefully ticking down the minutes, the Roman numerals enumerating the hours. But in the center of the watch was something Charlie had never seen before -- a small window with three numbers in it. 365, the window said, and Charlie ran his fingers over the numbers, trying to make sense of them.

Three hundred and sixty five . . .

And then he turned the watch back over to study the inscription again, and he understood. Until we meet again, Wonka had written. Three hundred and sixty five days. One year. One year until Charlie could return to the factory for good. Three hundred and sixty five days until he could go home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my beta, Reibish, for her help.

_Five months earlier . . . _

From the moment Willy Wonka crashed his great glass elevator through her ceiling, Mrs. Bucket suspected there was something wrong with the man. After the fiasco with the space hotel, the Wonka-Vite, and the trip to the White House, she _knew_ there was something wrong with him. Yet despite her initial misgivings, or maybe because of them, over the years, she found herself slowly warming to the chocolatier.

Perhaps it was just that he'd rescued them all, as deftly as Charlie had once saved a baby bird he found on the sidewalk. Or perhaps it was that beneath his arrogance, his eccentricity and his ridiculous clothes, she saw in Willy Wonka a boy not much older than her own Charlie. Wonka had a child's imagination, certainly, and a child's vulnerability, carefully hidden beneath his top hat and frock coats. In fact, Mrs. Bucket sometimes suspected that the entire factory resulted from a child's sense of indignation. _You won't play with me? Fine! I'll play my own game, and it will be better than yours._

After a few awkward months in the factory, she and her husband finally gave up on trying to relate to Wonka in adult terms, and instead began treating him as they would any other of Charlie's friends. So when Willy Wonka insisted on dragging the Bucket family out of their cottage one night after dinner, never mind that the dishes needed washed or that Grandma Georgina was practically falling asleep in her chair, Mrs. Bucket only smiled, and took her husband by the arm, holding a hand out to Grandma Georgina.

"Well, this should be exciting," she said brightly.

"Oh, it will," Wonka assured them, practically bouncing with excitement. "You'll never believe what I did. It's the most extensive renovation to the chocolate room I've done in years! It took two months of research to plan it, and the building time took another three weeks!"

"I don't understand why you didn't tell me any of this," Charlie said, sounding a little bit hurt. Every year, Wonka brought him deeper into the running of the factory, sharing more secrets and giving him more responsibility. They were practically partners now. Wonka had ceased Charlie's formal tutoring two years earlier, and Charlie now worked for the factory in earnest, putting in nearly the hours that Wonka himself did. But Willy Wonka still kept secrets, and Charlie always hated to be reminded of the fact.

Wonka spun on his heels to face Charlie. "But my dear boy, I did it all as a surprise for you and your parents!" After eight years of living with the Buckets, Wonka could now say the dreaded word without a problem, although his tongue sometimes stuck if he were particularly upset about something.

Charlie frowned, and looked somewhat mollified, but just in case, Mr. Bucket decided to move the conversation to a safer subject.

"But how could you have done so much to the chocolate room without our noticing?" Mr. Bucket asked. "We're here nearly all day long."

Wonka let out a squeal of high pitched laughter and clapped his hands together. "That's the best part! I did it all under your noses! Or rather, over your heads."

But as much as they pestered him for answers, he refused to say anything more. He simply led them to a particularly pleasant hillside near the bank of the chocolate river. The Bucket family followed him quietly, except for Grandma Georgina, who was mumbling quietly to herself. She'd gone downhill since the other three grandparents died -- Grandpa Joe had slipped away in his sleep three years ago and Grandma Josephine had followed only a few months later. They'd all privately hoped that Grandpa George might be too cantankerous to die, but only six months ago, he too had finally passed away. The youngest of the four grandparents, Grandma Georgina was now the only one left.

As Mrs. Bucket settled her onto the swudge, Grandma Georgina blinked up at her and said, "George likes cheese."

Smiling sadly, Mrs. Bucket took her own seat on the swudge near her husband, waiting to see whatever surprise Willy Wonka had planned for them this time. The temperature in the chocolate room dropped a few degrees every night, creating the illusion of a warm summer's night, and with the overhead lights off, the maze of pipes above could not be seen. Mr. Bucket wrapped an arm around her, and she smiled up at him. The chocolate room always seemed particularly romantic after dark.

"It's a beautiful night," she whispered, and he nodded.

"Look at Charlie," he said. "He sure seems happy."

Charlie did. He lie sprawled on the swudge beside Mr. Wonka, shamelessly pestering the chocolatier to tell him the surprise. Wonka just smiled and shook his head, an enigmatic smile curving his lips. His eyes glowed with the thrill of keeping a secret he wanted desperately to tell. Wonka looked nearly Charlie's age in the dim light. Not for the first time, Mrs. Bucket found herself wondering how old the chocolatier really was. He refused to tell them -- whenever asked, he'd cock his head to one side and claim deafness in one ear. Secretly, Mrs. Bucket suspected that Wonka feared aging just as much as some of the vainer women she'd met in her life did. Why else would he go to the trouble of creating Wonka-Vite? Sure, he might claim that the magical pills were too precious to waste on himself, but as a woman nearing forty, Mrs. Bucket knew more than a thing about aging. And Willy Wonka's unlined face could not have been achieved without the aid of some concoction or another.

"Look!" her husband whispered, interrupting her train of thought. He pointed towards the ceiling, and she followed his finger with her gaze to see a tiny pinprick, of light against the darkened ceiling.

"Oh," she gasped, because the tiny light was quickly joined by another one, then another, hundreds of them mirroring the constellations that she vaguely remembered from her childhood, before the light pollution in the city had grown too thick for them to see the stars at night. "It's beautiful," she whispered.

Wonka grinned, practically trembling with excitement, and she saw from his expression that the surprise was not over yet. Staring up dizzily, she watched as a bright light streaked across the horizon, then another. Stars were falling all around them, an artificial meteor shower so real in its intensity that only Willy Wonka could have created it.

"How did you do it?" Mr. Bucket asked, but Wonka only tipped his hat in their direction. The chocolatier might share his secrets with Charlie, but he still fiercely guarded his ideas around the rest of the family.

"I know," Charlie said, and leaning close to Mr. Wonka, he whispered his hypothesis in the older man's ear.

The chocolatier laughed lightly, an admission of defeat, and slid his arm around Charlie's shoulders in a brief, but unmistakable, embrace. Mrs. Bucket blinked. Over the years, she'd grown accustomed to Wonka's careful distance, respecting his need to place walls between himself and the rest of the world. The man distrusted physical contact -- even simple handshakes made him uncomfortable. Yet here he was, sitting beside Charlie in the darkness, close enough to share breath and ideas. He'd touched Charlie voluntarily -- not just once, she realized, thinking back over her memory, but many times. She could recall a thousand instances of glimpsing Wonka's hand on Charlie's shoulder or arm, of watching the chocolatier nudge Charlie to get his attention. Once she'd even seen them walking the corridor arm-in-arm. At the time, she'd only laughed at the picture they presented -- with their matching frock coats and Wonka's top hat, they'd seemed a pair of Victorian gentlemen out for a stroll along the Strand. But as she reconsidered it, the memory took on a new significance. It was a small thing. Each glimpse of touch she'd seen was small. But from a man as reserved as Wonka, a thousand tiny instances added up to make a picture too big to ignore.

_No_, she thought. _Oh no._

Even as she watched, Charlie bounced lightly to his feet, grinning down at Wonka with an expression of undisguised adoration. Wonka was staring into her son's face with something like wonder gleaming in his eyes, and he took Charlie's outstretched hand with his own gloved one, holding on a bit longer than was necessary to pull himself to his feet.

"Goodnight, Mum," Charlie said, bounding over to kiss her goodnight. She pecked his cheek, and then blew a kiss to Wonka as well. He blushed and tipped his hat at her.

"Goodnight," he said.

They left the chocolate room together; Charlie had moved out of the cottage several years ago, citing the need to be closer to the inventing room should he need to check on an experiment at night. Mrs. Bucket watched them go, and then turned as her husband lay a hand on her shoulder.

"What is it?" he asked.

She shook her head, unsure exactly how to frame her suspicions into words. "Dear," she managed at last, "do Charlie and Willy seem . . . unusually close to you?"

To her surprise, Mr. Bucket just laughed as he steered her back towards the cottage. "Darling," he said, "everything about that man is unusual."

"But Charlie . . ."

Her husband shook his head. Choosing his words carefully, he said, "Charlie is happier here than he's ever been in his entire life. And something tells me that Willy is too. I'm glad they found each other. They both really needed a friend."

"But what if," Mrs. Bucket began, and then hesitated.

"What?" he asked. His expression warned her not to broach the topic, but she had to, if only for Charlie's sake.

"What if they're something more than friends?"

A moment of silence. She watched her husband close his eyes, breathing carefully in and out. At last he opened his eyes and looked at her. "If they are," he said, "then I'd congratulate them."

At his words, a swelling of pride infused her, drowning, for a moment, her concerns about Wonka and her son. "I love you," she whispered, surprised almost to tears. "How did I ever end up so lucky?"

"You'll never know," he said, and she laughed. Her sudden cheerfulness vanished, though, upon remembering the exact expression of adoration on Charlie's face as he helped Wonka to his feet.

"I want to be happy for them too," she said. "I really do. But darling . . . he's over twice Charlie's age."

"Physically," her husband said. "Mentally, I'd place him a few years younger." But she shook her head, trying to define why the relationship felt so wrong to her. "Darling," Mr. Bucket whispered, squeezing her shoulders, "Charlie isn't a little boy anymore. He's old enough to make his own decisions."

"Is he?" she asked. Her husband wiped a tear from her face, and only then did she realize she'd been crying. "It just doesn't seem healthy to me," she said.

"It's healthier than anything Willy is likely to find," Mr. Bucket said. "It's healthier than Charlie trying to carry on a relationship with somebody who's not just as infatuated with this factory as he is." But still Mrs. Bucket frowned. He hugged her close, smoothing her hair. "Relax, darling," he murmured. "You're worrying too much. Willy Wonka is the best thing that ever happened to our Charlie."

"I suppose you're right," she said, and allowed him to draw her into the cottage.

But as she lie awake that night, trying to believe her husband's words, she couldn't extinguish the nagging doubt in her mind. After a few hours, she finally gave up on sleep entirely. Tiptoeing into the kitchen, she made coffee, being careful not to disturb Grandma Georgina, who looked tiny and alone in the large bed she'd once shared with the other three grandparents. Once the coffee had brewed, Mrs. Bucket poured herself a large cup of it. She pulled the afghan off the sofa to wrap around herself, not because she was cold, for Wonka always kept the chocolate room pleasantly warm, but rather to feel the security of it wrapped around her.

She padded outside in her bare feet, and sat quietly on the wooden steps leading up to the cottage. Wonka's electric stars still burned overhead, although the meteor shower had ended when they all went off to bed. Sipping her coffee, she considered once more the strange relationship between Charlie and Mr. Wonka. A part of her wanted nothing more than to follow the path her husband had chosen, to watch supportively from the sidelines as they found each other, and then allow them to make their own mistakes. It would be the easiest thing for her to do. Surely it would be the best option, for all their sakes.

It would be the best option now, her sensible voice corrected. But what about ten years from now, or twenty, when her son and Mr. wonka had moved beyond their shy flirtation into a relationship too deep and complicated for either of them to comprehend, let alone end? You don't wait until you have a raging infection to put disinfection on a cut; you do it at once, never mind the sting, because only while the wound is fresh can you hope to let it heal without much difficulty.

Besides, she had never expected motherhood to be easy.

Her decision made, she sipped her coffee again. The small pain of betraying her husband's wishes stung her, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming relief she felt at deciding to follow her own instincts. Now that she knew what she needed to do, nothing remained but to put her plan into action. For a moment, she considered talking to Charlie directly, though she quickly dismissed the notion. Charlie was a good boy, but at eighteen, he thought he knew everything, especially about the factory and Mr. Wonka.

No, she decided, she'd have to approach Wonka himself, who (though childlike in many respects) had at least been around long enough to recognize good sense when it whacked him over the head.

Tomorrow she would confront the chocolatier.

* * *

The next morning, Mrs. Bucket sent her husband off to work with a kiss, and settled Grandma Georgina comfortably in bed with a bowl of oatmeal and the remote control. Willy Wonka might not approve of television, but his Oompa-Loompas loved it, or at least, they loved producing it. The Wonka network hosted hundreds of sitcoms, documentaries, soap operas, news programs and music videos, all written by, directed by, and starring Wonka's tiny workers. Grandma Georgina was particularly fond of the soap operas, which had been close-captioned in English just for her.

With Grandma Georgina occupied for the moment, Mrs. Bucket stepped outside the cottage. By now, she'd learned better than to try searching for Wonka. The factory was simply too large, and Wonka himself too likely to dart from one location to another. She could have tried to get ahold of Charlie, but that, of course, would raise the question of why, exactly, she needed Mr. Wonka in the first place. So upon stepping into the false sunlight of the chocolate room, Mrs. Bucket simply flagged down the nearest Oompa-Loompa and dropped down on one knee to talk to him.

"Could you please pass Mr. Wonka a message for me?"

The Oompa-Loompa hesitated a moment, then nodded shyly. Although Wonka continually assured her that all of his factory workers knew English, she'd yet to find an Oompa-Loompa that felt comfortable conversing in it, at least with her. The Oompa-Loompas might be bright, inquisitive, and mischievous, but they were also rather shy.

"Tell him that I need to talk to him about Charlie," she said.

The Oompa-Loompa crossed his arms over his chest and bowed to her. She watched him hurry away, a feeling of apprehension rising in her chest. Making her own way back to the chocolate room, she told herself once more that yes, this really was the only option she could choose. Returning to the cottage, she busied herself washing dishes, while all of the guilt that had nibbled at her conscience last night began to take large, hungry bites of her, as though it were trying to eat her from the inside out.

I'm a horrible mother, she thought, scrubbing the oatmeal pot with more force than was strictly necessary. I'm being ungrateful to Willy Wonka. I'm going to make things so difficult. How will either of them ever be able to forgive me?

When Willy Wonka knocked on the door a few hours later, it was almost a relief. "Come in," she called, switching off the vacuum.

From the bed, Grandma Georgina mumbled, "The rug says hi," and drifted back to sleep.

Willy Wonka stepped inside the cottage, removing his hat and coat by habit. "I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner," he said, "Charlie and I were working on a very delicate experiment, and if my timing was off by even a fraction of a second, it would have ruined hours of work."

"That's quite all right," Mrs. Wonka said. "I know how busy you are. Really, I'm grateful that you managed to carve time out of your schedule for me. Would you like some tea, Willy?"

"Yes please," Wonka said. She poured him a cup and sat down beside him, trying to decide how best to frame this conversation. But because Willy Wonka had very little patience, he took the decision out of her hands. "You said that you needed to talk to me about Charlie?"

"Yes," Mrs. Bucket said. She hesitated a moment, then asked, "Where is Charlie, by the way?" It wouldn't do to have Charlie walking in on them mid-conversation. That would only make everything even harder.

"He's in the administration offices," Wonka said. "I told Doris to go over last year's budget with them." Then, as if anticipating the reasoning behind her question, he added, "It's going to take a few hours at least."

Mrs. Bucket nodded. "Willy, I'm going to ask you a question," she said. "I hope that it doesn't offend you."

"What is it?" he asked, his voice high and nervous.

In her mind, she had considered and discarded several possible phrasings for what she was going to say next. But seeing Willy Wonka looking up at her so terrified, she decided to take pity on them both.

"Willy," she said gently, trying to keep her voice warm, her posture open. "Are you in love with my son?"

The color drained from his face. He stood abruptly, spilling his tea, and then, staring down at it, he dropped back into his seat, as though he'd lost the strength to stand. Mrs. Bucket rose calmly, and fetched a rag from the drawer. She mopped up the tea, watching Wonka through the corners of her eyes.

He was shaking, hugging himself.

"Willy," she said again, settling back into her own seat. "Please tell me. I need to know."

He was doing his best to control his emotions, but nonetheless, she could see them flashing across his face. Anger. Fear. Self doubt. Anger again. And last of all, a terrible expression of guilt that settled into place and twisted at her heart.

"Yes," he whispered, almost too quietly for her to hear.

She closed her eyes. She'd expected a fight, expected an immediate denial followed by self-righteous indignation. This horrible guilt, this quiet admission, was even worse than that, and her heart went out to the chocolatier.

"Oh, Willy," she whispered.

"Does he know?" Wonka choked out.

She blinked, momentarily nonplussed. "Who?" she asked.

"Charlie!" Misreading her expression, he leaned forward, the guilt on his face replaced by horror. "Please," he begged her. "Please don't tell him. I couldn't bear to lose Charlie; he's the only friend I have. He doesn't have to know. I'm trying to stop these feelings. I've been talking to my therapist about them. Sooner or later, I'll figure out how, and then everything can go on just like it was before. Okay?"

Mrs. Bucket just stared at him, realizing once again that while Willy Wonka may know a great deal about chocolate, he didn't understand people very much at all. Couldn't he see the way Charlie looked at him?

"I haven't told Charlie," she said. "And I'm not planning on it. But that doesn't matter, because I know my son, and sooner or later, _he's_ going to say something to you."

"He will?" Wonka asked in a small voice. "Then I must have been too obvious. Oh no. Oh fudge."

"Willy, Charlie is in love with you, too," she said, a hint of exasperation shading her voice. "Or at least he thinks he is," she added, too kind to let the momentary expression of hope stay on his face for long.

Wonka opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

She sighed, and began the speech she had prepared last night. "Willy," she said, "I love you like a second son. Surely you know that. But I can't stand by and let you begin a romantic relationship with Charlie. He's only eighteen, and --"

"I know that!" Wonka snapped. "Why do you think I feel so horrible?"

She reached to pat his arm, but he flinched away violently. He was glaring at the floor now, refusing even to meet her eyes.

"Willy," she said gently, and waited until he finally looked up at her. "You don't understand. It's not the age difference that bothers me. Not really, anyway. Charlie has a good head on his shoulders, and he's more than old enough to make his own decisions. And I was only eighteen when I married Charlie's father."

"You were?" Wonka asked, apparently trying to picture her at Charlie's age. She smiled at him, and a cloud of confusion passed over his face. "But then . . . "

"What bothers me is that Charlie has hardly left the factory since we moved in here. You're the only person he ever sees, except for us Of course he's fallen in love with you! Who else could he possibly be interested in? You're everything to him, Willy. You're his hero, and his mentor, and his family, and his best friend. I can't allow you to be his lover too. Not now, when Charlie doesn't know the first thing about love, or even life."

In the moment of silence that followed, Wonka stared at her with narrowed eyes, and Mrs. Bucket tried not to be unnerved by his face. Wonka could be frightening, when he forgot to be nervous around her.

"You said that Charlie was old enough to make his own choices," he finally reminded her.

"I did," she admitted. "But Willy, my point is that Charlie doesn't even know there's a choice to be made. You've seen the world; you knew what you were giving up when you decided to shut yourself away from it. Charlie hasn't. He's never even left this town. You saw how we lived before Charlie found the golden ticket. We were starving. And then you came along, offering him the factory, offering him everything he'd ever dreamed of, and of course he chose you over poverty. Who wouldn't, faced with a choice like that?"

"Charlie loves it here!" Wonka protested.

"I know!" she cried. "I know that! But can't you understand that that's the problem?" She took a deep breath, trying to calm down. In a more rational voice, she said,"Do you know that Charlie made a toothpaste-cap model of this factory when he was a boy?"

Wonka nodded in a small motion, his lips pursed into a thin line. Feeling bolder, she continued, "Every year, we gave him a Wonka bar for his birthday. Without fail, the first thing he'd do when he finished it was run upstairs and paste the wrapper on his wall. He loved this factory before he ever set a foot inside it, before he'd even heard of the Golden Tickets. Sometimes I think he was born loving it. Maybe it's genetic, I don't know. His grandpa felt the same way."

They both closed their eyes for a second in memory of Grandpa Joe.

"But Willy," Mrs. Bucket said gently, "Sometimes I think that Charlie has been so blinded by this factory that he's forgotten there's a world outside of it, a world that isn't only poverty and sadness. He doesn't know what he's giving up to stay here. And while that doesn't matter a bit to him right now, because he's young and infatuated, and because he still sees this place as some sort of a fairyland, someday, Charlie is going to open his eyes and see exactly what he gave up for you. And then he will be bitter, and he will be upset, and you will both be hurt. I can't sit by and watch that happen, Willy. Not if I have a chance to stop it."

Wonka's head had drooped forward during her speech, and when he lifted it again, she was shocked to see tears glistening in his eyes.

"Willy . . ." she said.

He shook his head, stalling her next words. She watched as his fingers convulsed around his empty teacup. From his cloudy expression, she could tell that he was fighting a battle within himself. When he finally looked up, his expression was bleak, more helpless, even, then it had been when Grandpa Joe died.

"What should I do?" he whispered.

"Do you really love my son?" she asked.

"I love Charlie more than anything," Wonka said.

"More than the factory?" she asked, watching his expression carefully.

He drew back in shock, but after a pained moment, he nodded. "Yes," he said slowly, as though just realizing it. "Yes, I do."

"More than chocolate, even?"

He went even paler and bit his lip, but then, to her surprise, he nodded again. "Yes," he whispered. "More than that."

"Then send him away."

"What?" he sputtered. "I . . . I can't!"

"Willy, you must!" she cried. "Don't you see that that's the only way this . . . thing you have can possibly work?"

"I can't lose Charlie!" Wonka said. "I could do anything else you asked, but not that!"

"It doesn't have to be forever," Mrs. Bucket said. "Just for year! A year is a long time when you're Charlie's age. What's important is that he get out of the factory, that he really understands exactly what he's choosing to give up by staying here."

Wonka was staring at her with betrayal in his eyes, and she snapped, "Look, I don't want to loose Charlie either! But I love him too much to keep him here out of selfishness. And that's what it would be, Willy, selfishness. If you really love my son, then do what's best for him, not for yourself. Give him the chance to make the same choice you did."

"But what if he doesn't come back?" Wonka asked, his voice sounding small and helpless.

"He will," she said, hoping for all of their sakes that she was right. "If it's really love he feels, and not some childhood infatuation, he will."

"But what if he doesn't?" Wonka whispered. "What if he finds somebody else, or decides that he wants to be a. . . a _dentist_ or an artist instead of a chocolatier?"

"If he does," Mrs. Bucket said, "if he really, truly would rather be someplace other than here, then don't you want him to find that out now? Don't _you_ want to find that out now, while you're still young enough to find another heir if it comes down to that?"

"Charlie's my heir!" Wonka snapped. "I don't want another one."

"Charlie will do what's right by the factory either way," Mrs. Bucket said. "Even if he decides not to live here, he'll make sure it's taken care of. You have to know that."

Wonka was staring into his empty teacup. When he finally looked up at her, his face was more honest than she had ever seen it. "I'm old," Wonka said. She frowned; she hadn't expected him to say that. "I'm much, much older than I look," he said. "I'm not sure how many years I have left. I can't waste them."

"Then don't," she said. "Think of it as an investment. One year now for many years later." Her mouth quirked and she said, "Besides, you can always use what's left of the Wonka-Vite. One pill would bring you back to Charlie's age."

"I told you," he said, "Wonka-Vite is far too precious to waste on myself!" Glaring at her, he said, "I don't have to listen to any of this. It's my factory. Mine and Charlie's. I could always kick you out."

"You could," she agreed. "But what would that do to Charlie?"

He sighed, fiddling with his teacup, distraught. When he finally looked up at her, his expression was pained.

"All right," he said softly. "I'll send him away. For one year." And standing, he shot her a cool gaze that practically froze her insides. "But I don't have to like it," he snarled. And with that parting shot, he swept out of the cottage.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge strawberry-flavored chocolate-coated thank-you goes out to my beta, Reibish, for her patience and suggestions. Any remaining mistakes are my own. Thanks also to my roommate, Nuin, for letting me gab her ear off about this story. And, of course, a million thanks go out to those of you who've read and commented on my previous chapters. Forget the gold; you're all worth your weight in _chocolate_.

Charlie sat on the bridge-like hill overlooking the river, balancing a notebook on his lap. He'd come to sketch plans for a new cream-filled cattail that could grow in the shallow chocolate near the bank, but try as he might, he couldn't seem to focus his mind on the idea. Instead, he thought about Willy Wonka. The chocolatier had been avoiding him for three days now, ever since he dropped Charlie off in the administration offices and asked him to go over last year's budget with Doris. By the time Charlie managed to escape the Oompa-Loompa's clutches, his head ached from studying the budget sheets. That night, he'd gone looking for Wonka, but the Oompa-Loompas said that he'd retired to his rooms and didn't want to be disturbed. They'd seemed unaccountably upset about something, the motion of their hands almost frantic as they spoke to him. Wonka hadn't come to dinner that night, and Charlie hadn't seen him since.

Plucking a blade of swudge from the ground, Charlie sucked it slowly, letting it dissolve against his tongue. The mint flavor soothed him as he tried once more to determine exactly how he'd managed to upset Wonka. As before, he couldn't think of any reason why the chocolatier should be annoyed with him -- until three days ago, Charlie would have said that they were getting along great. But sometimes Wonka's moods were impossible to predict; this wouldn't be the first time Charlie had upset him without realizing it.

A shadow fell over him, and Charlie glanced up, startled to find the object of his thoughts standing over him, his hands clasped over the top of his cane.

"Mr. Wonka!" Charlie gasped, almost dropping his notebook. Wonka could move silently when he wished, and Charlie hadn't heard his footsteps.

"Hello Charlie," Wonka said. Something in his voice made Charlie cautious.

"Are you okay?" Charlie asked, looking up at the older man. Wonka's hands trembled a little against the top of his cane, and his pale skin looked practically grey, with dark hollows under his eyes and cheeks.

"I'm fine," Wonka said, managing a wan smile that didn't fool Charlie in the slightest. "I want you to come with me."

Charlie gathered his pencils and his notebook and struggled to his feet. Three days ago, Wonka would have offered a hand to help him up. Today he didn't, and that made Charlie even more nervous. Wonka turned and set a rapid pace towards the door of the chocolate room. Charlie hurried after him, drawing abreast of him once they reached the Great Glass Elevator. He tried to slip his arm through Wonka's, as they'd fallen in the habit of doing, but the chocolatier went rigid at his touch.

"What is it?" Charlie asked, studying the older man's face. "Something's bothering you, I know it. I can't help you if you won't tell me."

"Charlie, my boy," Wonka said sadly. "This is the one thing that you can't help me with."

"But--"

"Shh," Wonka said, raising one gloved finger to his lips. "You'll understand in time. Or maybe you won't. Maybe you won't," he murmured, as if speaking to himself. His eyes took on that hazy look they got during one of his flashbacks, and for a second, he looked like he might cry.

"Mr. Wonka!" Charlie cried, truly alarmed now. "Please. What's wrong?"

But Wonka only shook his head and lifted his cane to poke a button high on the ceiling of the elevator. Charlie glanced up to see the room he'd chosen.

"Globe room?" he said. "We don't have a globe room." As he spoke, the elevator shot upwards, and then swerved suddenly to the left.

"It's a relatively new addition," Wonka confessed. Charlie stared at him, hurt. First the shooting stars, and now this? Since when did Wonka add onto the factory without telling him first?

"I see," he said stiffly.

"No," Wonka said. "But you will. I'm afraid that you'll see very quickly." And then the elevator doors were opening. The two of them stepped out into a round white room that was entirely empty, save for a gigantic globe that was somehow suspended in mid-air at the room's center.

Charlie stepped closer to it, transfixed. Whatever the globe had been fashioned out of, it glowed from within like stained glass. He recognized the countries and oceans he'd learned in school, but as he studied the globe, he realized that certain additions had been made.

"Loompa-Land," he whispered, finally seeing the precise location of the Oompa-Loompas' homeland. A closer inspection revealed several more unheard-of countries. He'd never known that Willy Wonka knew the precise location of Atlantis, nor that there were so many oceans in the world. "It's beautiful," he said, finally looking up at Wonka.

"It's yours," Wonka said, and his voice had gone quiet, as it always did when he was being honest. "Not just the globe. All of it. The whole world. Just pick a place, Charlie, and I'll send you there. Any place you want to go."

"Are we going on vacation?" Charlie asked. He tried to picture Willy Wonka wearing a Hawaiian shirt or swimming trunks, with absolutely no success.

"Not precisely," Wonka said sadly. He stared at the globe for a long second, his hands tightening pensively on his cane, then turned to look sidelong at Charlie. "Do you trust me, Charlie?" Wonka asked.

"Of course," Charlie said at once.

"Would you trust me even if I asked you to do something that you didn't want to do?"

"Like what?" Charlie asked, starting to get nervous.

Wonka took a step back, as if he needed the distance between them before he could manage his next words. "Charlie," he said, "I don't want to do this. I hate doing this. I want you to remember that. Okay?"

"What?" Charlie asked. "What are you doing? I don't understand."

Wonka closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. As if the words hurt him, he choked out, "Charlie, I want you to leave the factory."

"What?" Charlie cried. His eyes welled up with tears, and he wiped them away angrily. "No! Mr. Wonka, please! Whatever I did to make you angry, I promise, I'll fix it. Just please don't make me leave!"

"I'm not angry with you, Charlie!" Wonka said. "You mustn't think that. And it's not going to be forever. Just for a year. I don't like it any more than you do. The last thing I want to do is make you leave."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"I can't tell you!" Wonka said. "Please, you'll have to trust me. This is the one secret I can't share with you, Charlie. You just have to trust that I wouldn't be doing this without a very good reason."

Charlie just stared at him, feeling more betrayed than he ever had in his life. Tears were streaming down his cheeks freely now. He made no effort to stop them. "What would I do for a whole year outside of the factory?" he asked.

"Anything you want, Charlie. Anything at all." Wonka managed a bitter smile and waved his hand at the globe. "I meant it, I'll send you anyplace you'd like to go. You can have a grand adventure."

"I don't want an adventure," Charlie said. "I want to stay here."

"But you can't," Wonka said. His voice was sad but firm. "I'm not giving you that option, Charlie. Like it or not, you are going to leave the factory for a year."

"You said I was your heir," Charlie sobbed, mopping at his tears. "You said I was family. I thought . . . I thought that we. . . "

"Charlie," Wonka whispered, reaching to touch his shoulder. But Charlie shook him off, and Wonka stepped back, stung. "Charlie," he said, looking close to tears himself. "You are my heir. You are my family. I care about you more than I care for anybody else in the whole world. And that's why I have to do this."

"But why?" Charlie asked. "Can't you at least tell me why?"

"I already told you, I can't!" Wonka said. "Don't ask me again, Charlie. My answer isn't going to change. You don't want to leave, and I don't want to send you away, but neither of us has any real say in this matter. All I can do now is try and make this year as pleasant as I can for you. So please, pick a country Charlie. Any country in the whole world."

"I can't," Charlie said. "I don't want to."

"All right," Wonka said. "Then we'll do this another way. Close your eyes." Charlie glared at him for a second longer before obeying. "Now step forward. One more step. There. Reach out your hand, Charlie. Touch the globe."

Weeping bitterly, Charlie did as expected. A sob burst out of his throat when his fingers brushed the cool surface of the globe.

"Now I'm going to spin it, and you're going to visit wherever your finger lands. Okay?"

Charlie felt the air moving around him as Wonka stepped up to stand beside the globe. And then the globe was moving beneath his fingers, and he opened his eyes, staring with horrified fascination as one country and then another flashed beneath his fingertips. Wonka was watching just as anxiously, biting his bottom lip. _Please,_ Charlie thought, with a ferocity he'd only felt once before, standing outside the factory gates and hoping without hope that he'd find a golden ticket. _Please, let it stop right here. Let my finger land on this very factory._

But whatever luck had graced him eight years ago had worn off. Perhaps something as miraculous as a golden ticket could only occur once each lifetime. The globe stopped spinning and Charlie bit down a cry as he stared at the place his finger was resting.

The United States.

"Don't move, Charlie," Wonka whispered, and then the chocolatier leaned forward, pressing a button on the top of the globe. The country beneath Charlie's hand grew larger, magnifying to fill almost the whole globe. They both leaned forward to see the exact location of Charlie's finger: at the northwest corner of the country, in Washington state.

"Well," said Wonka, trying his best to feign cheerfulness. "It looks like you'll have quite a journey ahead of you."

* * *

Neither Charlie nor Wonka knew a thing about Washington state, so Wonka set the Oompa-Loompas to researching it while he and Charlie waited in their office. The chocolatier handed Charlie a handkerchief, but made no further attempt to comfort him. Charlie took the square of silk and dabbed at his eyes. Wonka leaned back in his desk chair, crossing his arms over his chest and studying the mural on the ceiling with feigned interest. They sat in silence until the Oompa-Loompas knocked on the door half-an-hour later.

"Come in!" Wonka said.

Half a dozen Oompa-Loompas burst into the office, their movements timed to the drum beat that had begun to pound from the overhead speakers. A strain of canned music filled the room, and they began to dance, artfully spinning and passing a stack of printed papers back and forth between them. Charlie buried his face in his hands as they started to sing.

"We've found a place! A perfect place!  
To wipe that sadness of your face.  
We thought, now where could Charlie go  
To see the world he doesn't know?  
We searched the whole state up and down  
To try to right our Charlie's frown --  
We thought we'd send you to the sea  
But then we feared you'd drown, so we  
Came up with a far better plan:  
We'll keep our Charlie safe on land!  
Where he can learn, and laugh, and live  
With other students, just like him,  
And slowly fill his head with knowledge  
In this fine school -- at Fuller college!"

"No!" Charlie cried, whose only experience with school had been the torturous public institution he'd attended before winning the golden ticket. Since then, he'd had private tutoring in the factory from Wonka and the Oompa-Loompas. He'd come to rather enjoy learning his history in rhyme.

But Wonka was smiling as he studied the printouts. "Hey," he said. "What a good idea! This is a liberal arts college, Charlie. You won't have to study anything practical. And of course, I wouldn't want you learning any lies about chocolate from some charlatan. Besides, it might be good for you to be with kids your own age."

"I haven't gone to school in years, though," Charlie protested, trying to think fast enough to get out of it. "I'll never get into a college!"

Wonka waved his hand. "Oh, we can certainly fix that," he said. "I've been tutoring you all this time, after all. You've certainly learned a lot. Besides, we've got loads of money, and that usually takes care of problems like these."

Charlie closed his eyes, defeated. Like it or not, it seemed he was going to Fuller College.

* * *

Before Charlie knew it, the necessary calls had been made, his bags were packed, and he was scheduled to fly to America. He'd hoped his parents might put a stop to it, but to his horror, they seemed to support the idea.

"I think it might be good for you, Charlie," his mother said softly. She wore an expression that he might have recognized as guilt, had he only looked up from his own sadness long enough.

His father was less enthusiastic, but still optimistic. "I never got the chance to go to a university," he told Charlie. "I always hoped that you could get an education. This is a wonderful opportunity that Willy is giving you. I want you to make the most of it."

None of them seemed particularly concerned that Charlie didn't want to leave.

He avoided them all during those last few months, preferring to spend his time in the small graveyard that housed the three grandparents. Grandpa Joe would have understood, he thought, leaning against his favorite grandfather's grave. Only Grandpa Joe had shared Charlie's love for the factory. Well, Grandpa Joe and Willy Wonka, Charlie admitted grudgingly. Wonka loved the factory even more than he did, though such a depth of feeling hardly seemed possible. But Wonka didn't seem to understand that Charlie shared that love . . . if he had, the man would never have decided to send Charlie away.

As for Wonka, he seemed to be avoiding Charlie just as Charlie was avoiding him. In a factory that large, it was ridiculously easy for them to go about their daily business without seeing each other. On the rare occasions when they passed in the corridors, Charlie glared at the floor until Wonka was out of sight. He knew that his silence was hurting the other man, but so what? Wonka was hurting Charlie by sending him away. Wonka stopped coming to dinner at Charlie's house, although Mrs. Bucket sent an Oompa-Loompa to Wonka's private rooms every night, practically staggering under the weight of a plate piled high with food. More often than not, the Oompa-Loompa returned, still carrying the plate, the food untouched. Wonka might have been eating on his own, but there was no way to tell. He was rapidly losing weight from all of the stress, becoming irritable and forgetful.

On the night before Charlie was scheduled to leave, Wonka knocked on the door to his rooms.

"What do you want?" Charlie snapped, glaring at the chocolatier. Part of him hoped that Wonka was coming to apologize, to tell him that he'd reconsidered, and that of course he wasn't going to make Charlie leave.

But Wonka only smiled brightly at him and said, with forced casualness, "Charlie, my boy, why are you holed up in your room? It's a beautiful night. Why don't we take a walk together?"

Charlie hesitated. Part of him, the hurt, angry part, wanted to refuse. But another part of his heart reminded him that he wouldn't be seeing Willy Wonka again for a year. Swallowing his anger, he nodded tensely, and stepped outside.

He'd been expecting Wonka to lead him to the Great Glass Elevator, but instead, the older man started down the corridor, chattering mildly all the while, as though it were simply another day in the factory.

"You should see the fantastic idea I came up with yesterday, Charlie," Wonka said. "I think it might even be bigger than hair toffee. Just imagine. You're sitting in your room, having a grand time with your toys or a book, and all of a sudden, your mother comes in, saying, 'Charlie, brush your teeth!' So you trudge into the bathroom, ready to let your super day go down the toilet, but instead of your toothbrush, you find _this_!"

And from within one of the many pockets inside his jacket, Wonka pulled something out and handed it to Charlie.

Charlie blinked at it, his confusion momentarily overriding his anger. "It's a toothbrush," he said.

"Taste it!" Wonka said, bouncing up and down on his heels.

Charlie complied, sticking the plastic toothbrush in his mouth. "It tastes like snozzberries."

"Uh huh," Wonka said. "And that's not all. The bristles themselves were treated with the compound we make our Everlasting Gobstoppers out of. No matter how many times you use it, it'll never get any smaller."

"But once parents find out that their children are sucking on these instead of brushing their teeth, they won't allow them to buy them," Charlie said. "They'd get too many cavities."

"But that's the best part!" Wonka cried. "This candy will actually clean your teeth! I came up with the formula myself ages ago . . . how else do you think my teeth have stayed so nice? But I only just thought of combining it with the Everlasting Gobstopper coating and testing it on the general market!"

"You might want to send it to your dad," Charlie said. "Let him see what he thinks of it."

Wonka sniffed. "Yeah right. He'd never go for a candy toothbrush, even if it did work."

"I meant to have him test it," Charlie said.

Wonka looked hurt. "Charlie, I am more than capable of testing my own candy."

"That's not what I meant! Look, we can sell more of them if you can write on the package that it's been approved by an actual dentist. That's all I meant."

Wonka frowned, considering his words. "I suppose you're right," he said reluctantly. "I'll write to my father next week."

Charlie glared at the carpet. "I don't know why I'm even bothering," he muttered. "I'm not going to be here when you put them out."

"Charlie," Wonka said, and Charlie glared at him.

"Why are you making me leave?" he cried. "Why can't I stay? I've done everything I can to be a good heir for you! I love this factory! I love --" and then he broke off, turning around to face the carpet. He couldn't bear Wonka looking at him right now, couldn't bear him to see the tears that were, once again, gathering in his eyes.

Wonka stepped closer. He reached to touch Charlie's shoulder, but Charlie lunged away.

"Don't touch me!" he yelled. "Don't try to make it better! If you want to make it better, let me stay!"

"I can't, Charlie," Wonka said.

Charlie turned around to face him once more. "You can do anything! You're Willy Wonka."

They stared at each other for a long moment. Wonka's face was nearly indecipherable, but Charlie knew him well enough to read the anger in his eyes and the line of his lips. Then, without a word, Wonka turned and stalked out of the hallway, his coat tails flaring behind him. Charlie stared after him for a long, long moment, before the loss of the man finally hit him. He slumped against the wall, pressing his face to the wallpaper.

For the first time since Wonka had taken him to him in the globe room, Charlie fully realized that he would be leaving the factory.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Reibish and Nuin for making this chapter fit for human eyes. Thanks also to those of you who've read and commented on my previous chapters. I appreciate your feedback more than you can possibly know.

When the tears finally ran their course, Charlie pulled himself up to a sitting position on the bed. His eyes felt swollen and dry from crying, and his cheeks burned from the salt. Wonka's pocket watch still lie on the mattress beside him.

Somebody knocked on his bedroom door. Charlie sniffled, wiped his face on his t-shirt, and said, "Come in."

The door swung open and Mark stuck his head inside. "Hey," he said, "Isabelle and John showed up. We're going to --" and then he seemed to see Charlie for the first time. His voice faltered. "Are you okay, man?"

Charlie blushed, embarrassed to be caught crying. "Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."

Mark looked dubious, but he seemed willing to let the issue go. "The four of us were going to go get pizza," he said. "Do you want to come?"

Charlie's stomach twisted at the very thought of eating. "No thanks."

"Okay," Mark said, "Another time, then." And he let the door swing shut.

Charlie exhaled slowly, glad to be alone with his pain once more. He stared down at Wonka's pocket watch, stroking the smooth brass with his thumb. With a trace of Wonka sitting on the bed, his dorm room seemed even duller than it had before. Only the three suitcases on the floor hinted that Charlie lived there at all.

I don't live here, Charlie thought. This place is nothing to me.

But as he heard the door to his suite slam shut, the sense of loneliness that engulfed him was all the more complete.

Over the next week, Charlie fell into a routine. Every morning, he woke, dressed, and made his way to class. He'd refused to study anything even remotely practical -- if nothing else, Wonka might take pity on him if Charlie couldn't find a job later. This quarter, he'd signed up for two art classes, Greek mythology, and the English composition class the school had required him to take. A part of him was tempted to skip his classes altogether, to get himself kicked out of college and see what Wonka would do then. But he'd lived with the chocolatier long enough to know that Wonka couldn't be deterred from an idea so easily. If Charlie got kicked out of Fuller College, Wonka would only send him someplace else. Besides, Charlie hadn't become the Wonka heir by being ill-behaved. Like it or not, obedience was a fundamental part of his personality, down to the very marrow of his bones. He was, had always been, a good boy. So he went to class every day, did his homework, and spent the rest of his time in bed thinking about the factory. All the while, his pocket watch counted down the days until he could go home. Three hundred and sixty-four. Three hundred and sixty-three. Three hundred and sixty-two. The days moved by too slowly.

Sometimes his parents called him. Charlie feigned happiness over the phone, not wanting them to know how miserable he was. "It's great here," he'd say, but he couldn't elaborate on it. Their voices sounded suspicious,, but they never actually called his bluff.

Every afternoon, he checked his mailbox to find a new letter from Willy Wonka. Wonka wrote about the factory, about his latest ideas, about the Oompa-Loompas' recent discovery of tap dancing. He asked for Charlie's input over certain projects, detailed how some of Charlie's candies were doing on the market, and always said how very much he looked forward to Charlie coming home. Sometimes the letters made Charlie laugh, momentarily jostling him out of his constant sadness. More often, they made him want to cry. Sometimes, Wonka's blithe all's-normal tone made Charlie so angry that he wanted to rip the letters into a hundred pieces and set them all on fire. But whatever emotion they incited in him, Charlie only folded each letter carefully and set it in the top drawer of his desk. Some mornings, only the letters were enough to force him out of bed -- class was worth enduring, if he could find one of Wonka's letters afterwards. He read the letters daily. He memorized each one. But he never wrote back to Wonka.

During that first week, Charlie avoided the communal living room of his suite, far preferring the solitude of his bedroom. Even so, he gradually grew to know his suitemates.

As wild as Mark looked with his tattooed neck and braids, he seemed to spend most of his time at home, either reading or talking to the other suitemates. He was an anthropology major, Charlie learned, and he played the guitar. Sometimes Charlie heard the soft chords through his bedroom door, and he was tempted to step outside, to listen properly, maybe even to tell Mark about the Oompa-Loompas who, until then, had been the only source of live music in Charlie's life. But he never did.

Mark's roommate, John, vaguely reminded Charlie of Mike Teavee. Slightly overweight and ridiculously smart, he spent most of his time at his computer, chatting with his various online friends. He only seemed to leave the suite for class or for Game. Charlie wasn't entirely sure what Game was, or why the word seemed to require a capital letter when John said it, but he never became quite curious enough to ask.

Of the two girls, Amy was around the most. She smoked with Mark on the balcony, played video games with John, and tried sometimes to engage Charlie's attention. Her electric friendliness, the sheer level of energy she brought into any conversation, made Charlie desperately want to like her. But sometimes her childish intensity reminded him painfully of Wonka, and he found himself withdrawing, escaping again into the isolation of his room.

The other girl, Isabelle, spent most of her time away from the suite. Charlie often saw her sitting under the leafy oak tree outside Walden Hall, scribbling something in a notebook. He never asked what. Isabelle always left for the weekends -- he'd heard that she drove to her hometown, to visit her boyfriend. He envied her for having a home close enough to reach by car.

Mark remained persistent in his friendliness, and always invited Charlie along when the suitemates left as a group to get pizza or visit a concert or ball game. Yet as much as a part of him longed to join them, Charlie always declined. In the back of his mind, he wondered whether living in the factory had forever spoiled him for human company, whether he, like Wonka, was now fundamentally incapable of dealing with other people, except in carefully controlled doses.

On the Wednesday of Charlie's second week on campus, somebody knocked on his door.

"Come in," he said listlessly, expecting to find Mark there with another invitation. Sooner or later, he expected his suitemate to give up, but it hadn't happened yet. But when the door opened, it revealed a vaguely familiar looking girl. It took him a second to place her -- as rarely as Charlie left his room, he'd seen her only once or twice, although she lived right across the hall. She was Gretchen, his RA.

She smiled at him and said, "Hi, Charlie! How's it going?"

"All right," he said, trying to figure out why she had come. He hadn't broken any dorm rules, none that he knew of, anyway. Perhaps she'd learned about the beer Mark kept in the fridge.

Gretchen laughed at his expression. "Don't worry," she said. "You're not in trouble. I try to talk to all of my residents a few times each quarter. Is this a good time for you?"

"Sure," Charlie said. "Um, come in."

She stepped into his dorm room, looking around curiously. Charlie sat up on his bed, trying not to be nervous. Gretchen took the seat at his desk, and frowned at the suitcases still lying on the floor.

"You haven't unpacked yet."

"No," he muttered. Save for the sheets on his bed and the dirty clothes slowly gathering in one corner of the room, all of his belongings remained in the suitcases.

"Any reason?" Gretchen asked.

Charlie shrugged. "I just haven't felt like it, I guess."

She pursed her lips and asked, "How are you liking your classes?"

"They're all right," Charlie said.

"Have you made any friends?"

Silence. After a second, Charlie shook his head.

"Your suitemates say you don't get out much."

"I go to class," Charlie protested.

"Is that all? College is a lot more than classwork. I've found you learn the most important things outside of class, talking to people, exploring new ideas. I just want to make sure that you're getting the experience you came here to get."

"I didn't come here for anything!" Charlie said, dismayed to hear the sentence break a little. He wiped his eyes, and said, "My . . . my family made me come. I didn't want to."

"Oh," she said, and quietly handed him the box of kleenex on his desk. He wiped his eyes, unable to look at her. "That must be rough," she said.

"You have no idea."

"You know," she said, trying to lighten the mood, "Most parents don't want their kids to come to Fuller. We have a reputation as a hippie school, with all of our emphasis on communal experiences and integrated learning."

"My family is a bit strange," he said.

"Aren't all families?"

He dabbed his eyes again, and sighed.

She hesitated and then said, "You know, we have a counseling center on campus. I've gone there myself a few times. A lot of students find it helpful during their first few weeks. If you ever need to talk to somebody --"

"I don't need therapy!" Charlie interrupted. He'd visited Wonka's therapist once, right after Grandpa Joe died. The solemn Oompa-Loompa had stared at him silently until Charlie grew unnerved enough to start talking. It had been one of the more unpleasant experiences in his life.

"All right," Gretchen said. "I just wanted to make sure you knew about that resource. Do you have anybody else you can talk to? Friends from home?"

Charlie hesitated. "My parents call me sometimes." He didn't mention Wonka's letters, though he was sure that Gretchen already knew about them. The RAs took turns sorting the mail.

"So you still talk to them, even after . . .?"

"Yeah."

She smiled at him. "You must really love them."

His face twisted into a painful grimace, but he didn't say anything.

Gretchen said, "I want you to know that I'm here if you ever need to talk to anybody. That's one of the things RAs do. And a lot of people have said that I'm a good listener. My room is . . ."

"Just across the hall," Charlie said. "I know."

She smiled at him. "Stop by sometime, even if you don't want to talk. We can just hang out. Okay?"

Reluctantly, he nodded.

"In the mean time," she said, "I want you to do something for me."

"What?"

"Unpack," she said. "This is your home now, even if you don't want it to be. You might as well make the most of it. You shouldn't be living out of suitcases."

He hesitated. His voice stuck in his throat. "I . . ."

"It's painful, isn't it?"

He nodded, unable to speak.

"Would you like me to help you?" she asked.

Inexplicably, Charlie remembered the second time he'd met Willy Wonka, at the shoe-shining booth downtown. _Would you like me to go with you?_ A lump formed in his throat, and he forced it down.

"Would you?" he asked.

She smiled at him. "You bet."

* * *

Two hours later, Charlie's dorm room looked almost like his room at the factory had, albeit a great deal smaller. His books sat in a neat row on his desk hutch, a sumptuous area rug covered the threadbare dormitory carpet, and rich tapestries hung on the white walls. He'd even found his old collection of Wonka bar wrappers stored carefully between the pages of his dictionary. They now hung proudly on his bulletin board, along with an old drawing he'd done of the factory.  
Gretchen's eyes had widened when they opened the first suitcase. "How on earth did you fit all of this in there?" she'd asked.

"I had help," Charlie said. Truth be told, the Oompa-Loompas had done most of his packing for him.

In the third suitcase, Charlie had been amazed to discover a small, cherry-red laptop. Wonka used a desktop computer like it to manage the factory's accounts, and Charlie had borrowed it on the rare occasion that factory business called for him to get online. He'd never imagined they came in a smaller version, though.

"I can't believe you didn't unpack _this_, Gretchen had said, staring at it in awe. "What type of computer is that?"

"It's a WonkaBook," Charlie replied, spotting the gold-embossed name beneath the screen. "They're pretty rare."

"A WonkaBook," Gretchen said. "As in Willy Wonka?"

Charlie nodded, blushing.

"I didn't know he made computers," Gretchen said.

"He doesn't," Charlie said quickly. "At least not really. He needs them to run the factory though, and since none of the computers on the market are dependable enough, he decided to build his own." Too late, he realized what he was saying. "Oh fudge," he whispered. "Darnit. You're going to think I'm a freak now."

Gretchen only grinned at him. "Charlie, we just set up a giant cuckoo clock in one corner of your dorm room. Trust me, if I wanted to think of you as a freak, that would have done it."

Charlie stared at the laptop so he wouldn't have to meet her eyes. Just tell her, he thought. You're going to have to tell them all someday. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to look at her. "I'm Willy Wonka's heir," he said.

He expected her to react the way the kids at school had, shocked and envious. But Gretchen just looked a little embarrassed.

"I know," she admitted. "I'm sorry, I should have been upfront with you. But you seemed so desperate to hide it, and I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"How did you know?" Charlie asked.

"You mean aside from the fact that half of your things have the Wonka logo stamped across them?" Gretchen smiled at him. "The head of housing told me. Willy Wonka pulled a lot of strings to get you in here on such short notice, and she was afraid that you might be . . . oh, how should I put it?"

"Spoiled and rich?" Charlie said bitterly.

Gretchen smiled gently at him. "I didn't say that," she said. "She just told me to keep an eye on you. The last thing the school needs is some bad publicity because the Wonka heir managed to get drunk and fall off a balcony."

Charlie was gaping at her. She patted his hand.

"Not that I think you'd do that. Really, I wish all of my residents were as well-behaved as you are."

Charlie bristled a little, and she smiled. "Hey," she said. "It's okay. I'm sure that Willy Wonka is lucky to have you inheriting his factory."

Charlie blushed, and Gretchen smiled at him. "Have you told your suitemates yet?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Are you going to?"

"I don't know," Charlie said. "I'm not really sure that it matters. I hardly talk to them."

"You should spend more time with them," Gretchen said. "They're fun people. I know that they're concerned about you." Charlie glanced sharply at her, and she quickly changed the subject. "The room looks a lot better, though, doesn't it?"

"It does," Charlie admitted.

Gretchen's eyes fell upon the pile of dirty clothes still tossed in the corner. "You know," she said, "we have a laundry room in the basement."

Charlie blushed. "I don't know how to do laundry," he admitted. Before he'd found the golden ticket, his mother had always done his laundry for him. Once they'd moved into the factory, the Oompa-Loompas started taking care of it. He expected Gretchen to look shocked at the news. Instead, she only laughed.

"Freshman boys! You're all the same. What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?"

"Um, nothing," Charlie said. "I get out of class at three."

"All right," Gretchen said. "Tomorrow, I'll show you how to do laundry. All right?"

"Okay," Charlie said sheepishly.

She smiled at him, and started towards the door. "I should get back to my room. I've got some reading to catch up on. But I'm glad you let me talk to you, Charlie. I'm here whenever you need me."

"Thanks," Charlie said. "And thanks for helping me."

"Any time, Charlie," she said.

Not long after Gretchen left, Mark knocked on the door. "Whoa," he said, the moment the door was opened. "This place looks different."

Charlie glanced around the room and nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Gretchen helped me unpack," he said.

"Gretchen's a great girl," Mark said. "It must be nice to have the place finally looking like home again, huh?"

"I guess," Charlie said, glancing at the floor.

Mark smiled awkwardly. "The four of us were thinking about getting some food," he said. "Want to come along?"

"No thanks," Charlie said.

Mark shrugged; he'd been expecting that answer. "All right," he said, and left. Charlie plopped onto his bed. One of the suitcases had contained a stack of framed photographs, and Charlie had hung them on the wall by his bed. He looked up at the familiar faces in the photographs, seeing his mother and father, his grandparents, even Willy Wonka, smiling beneath the shadow of his top hat. Before he knew what he was doing, Charlie was on his feet and digging his wallet from his backpack.

"Hey!" he yelled,dashing out of his bedroom. He found his suitemates still in the communal living room, apparently discussing where to go. They turned as one to look at him, and Charlie blushed.

"I changed my mind," he said. "Is it still all right if I come?"

"Of course!" Mark said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Anthony's?" John asked, and the other three glanced at Charlie, then nodded at him.

Amy shot Charlie a gap-toothed grin. "I'll drive," she said.

Anthony's turned out to be a cozy Italian restaurant, apparently famous for its fire-roasted pizza. The drive itself was almost hair-raising enough to turn Charlie's stomach, and that was saying something, since he'd been riding the Great Glass Elevator since childhood. Amy seemed to feel that the speed limit signs didn't apply to her.

Inside, Anthony's was dim and cozy. A waitress greeted the group and led them to a large booth in the back. They followed, Charlie feeling uncomfortably out of place. Between its mismatched china plates, the plastic moose head on one wall, and the candles burning in jars on the tabletops, Anthony's was obviously a popular college hangout, and between Mark's tattoos and braids, Amy's spiky hair and nose ring, and Isabelle's thrift store dress and combat boots, his suitemates looked like they belonged in a place like Anthony's. Charlie glanced down at his jeans and homemade sweater, and momentarily wished that he'd worn his frock coat instead of his leather jacket. Trying to calm down, he reminded himself that John, at least, didn't look particularly unusual. The other boy wore jeans and a black t-shirt that said, "INSERT CLEVER GAMING SLOGAN HERE."

They all piled into their booth. To Charlie's surprise, their tablecloth turned out to be a sheet of white butcher paper. A handful of crayons sat in a china cup. Amy seized one at once and started to draw on the tablecloth.

"I love crayons!" Amy said. "Isn't it sad that we don't color as often as we get older?"

"It is sad," Charlie said, as he too reached for a crayon. It felt comfortable in his fingers, a welcome reminder of home, where crayons, finger paints, toys and (of course) candy still played important roles in his life. Wonka believed in nurturing their inner children. Amy leaned forward over the table, biting her lip as she concentrated on her drawing. Her nose ring glinted in the candlelight, and Charlie tried not to stare at it. He'd never met anyone with a facial piercing before. Focusing his attention back on his own drawing, Charlie tried to remember when he'd last spent time with this many people. Since he'd moved into the chocolate factory, Charlie had been almost as reclusive as Wonka himself. He felt overwhelmed in the midst of his suitemates, and even a little lonelier than before.

"Are you a vegetarian?" Mark asked, looking over the menu.

"No," Charlie said.

Mark nodded. "All right. We'll get two pizzas. Meat for the three of you, and veggie for Isabelle and me."

The waitress came and took their orders. When she left, Amy set down her crayon and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She took one and offered the pack around the group. Mark took one and lit it, inhaling deeply and letting the bitter smoke waft across the table. John and Isabelle shook their heads. Amy offered the pack to Charlie, who blushed.

"I've never smoked," he admitted.

Everybody except for John looked shocked. "Never?" Mark asked. "Not even pot?"

"Nobody at home did it," Charlie said, which was true enough. They all stared at him.

After a second, a devilish grin quirked Amy's mouth. "Would you like to try?" she asked.

"Don't do it," Isabelle advised. "It's a disgusting habit."

"You'll get hooked," John said darkly.

Amy swatted him across the table. "One cigarette isn't enough to hook you." She grinned at Charlie. "I'm not trying to pressure you," she said. "But if you want to try one, go ahead."

Charlie hesitated, then took a cigarette from the pack. He dimly remembered his mother warning him about smoking, remembered, too, a long tirade from Wonka against the habit. Wonka hated cigarettes even more than he hated gum. At least gum _tastes_ good, he used to say. But Charlie was curious, and curiosity certainly wasn't something for which Wonka could fault him.

"I'll try it," he said.

John and Isabelle shook their heads. Amy held out her lighter, the small flame glowing in the dim restaurant. Charlie held the cigarette to the flame and waited. Mark and Amy laughed.

"You have to inhale," Mark said, and took the cigarette from him. Placing it in his own mouth, he leaned forward until it touched the flame, and inhaled. The tip of the cigarette glowed orange. Mark blew out the smoke in a perfect ring, and handed the cigarette back to Charlie.

"There you go," he said.

Charlie took the cigarette cautiously, as though it might blow up. He brought it to his lips and inhaled, erupting in burst of coughing that made the others laugh. Wonka was right: it tasted horrible.

"Why do you _do_ this?" he asked, staring at the cigarette suspiciously.

Amy grinned. "it's fun," she said. "And it's social."

"It's kind of soothing, too," Mark said. "I'm guessing it's not your thing, though. You're kind of old to be starting. Do you want one of us to finish it for you?"

"No," Charlie said, "I'll finish it."

He put the cigarette to his lips again, this time expecting the bitter taste. He inhaled cautiously, and blew out the smoke. Mark showed him how to tap the ash into the ashtray. Charlie smoked the cigarette, imagining the lecture he would get if Wonka ever found out. Smoking dulls your taste buds, he would say.

"Are you going home this weekend?" John asked Isabelle, and she smiled, twisting the silver ring she wore on her left ring finger.

"Probably," she said. "I haven't seen Zach in awhile." For a moment, she looked almost radiant in the candlelight, lit from within by happiness, despite her "Take Back the Night" sweatshirt and combat boots.

Amy rolled his eyes. From a few overheard conversations between Amy and Mark, Charlie already knew that Amy disapproved of Isabelle's boyfriend. "You saw him last weekend," Amy said. "Why don't you stay here and hang out with us?"

"I'd miss him too much," Isabelle said. "Are you dating anybody, Charlie?" she asked.

Charlie looked up from his cigarette and blushed. "No," he said.

"You probably haven't met anyone yet," Mark said. "You've hardly left your room since we moved in."

"I meant from home," Isabelle said. "There's no special someone waiting for you then?"

Charlie's mind flashed to Willy Wonka, and he inhaled quickly, trying to burn the image away. He'd developed a crush on the chocolatier shortly after moving into the factory, and try as he might, he'd never been able to make the feeling go away. Instead, it had deepened over the years, adolescent fantasy giving way to a deep and painful longing that welled up to fill his chest whenever he thought about Wonka. Sometimes Charlie thought that it was hollowing him out from inside, like waves slowly carving an underwater cavern. But Wonka had sent him away. Wonka didn't deserve his devotion anymore.

Exhaling bitter smoke, Charlie said, "Not really. Just my family."

"And your friends," Amy said.

Wonka came to mind again, but this time Charlie couldn't bear to chase him away. He nodded, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray.

Amy smiled at him. "I'm so glad that you came with us, Charlie. I feel like we hardly know you."

"We don't," John said.

"But we're going to," Mark said. "Tell us about yourself, Charlie."

They all smiled encouragingly at him. Charlie blushed, and tried to think up something witty. "What do you want to know?" he managed at last.

"What do you do for fun?" Amy asked.

Charlie considered the question. I ride in the gondola, he thought. I mess around in the inventing room. I play rhyming games with the Oompa-Loompas. I play chess with Dad. I talk to Mr. Wonka.

"I draw," he said, and the others grinned at him.

"That's right," Mark said. "You're taking a bunch of art classes, aren't you?"

"Only two," Charlie said.

Isabelle leaned across the table to study what Charlie had drawn on the butcher paper. "That's pretty good," she said. "What is it?"

Charlie inhaled again to stall, trying to decide what to say. Gretchen had taken the news all right, but that didn't mean that his suitemates would. He didn't want to scare them away, not when he'd finally started to like them.

Glancing down at his drawing, he said, "That's the Wonka chocolate factory. It's the largest building in my hometown."

He held his breath for a moment, worried that they'd say more. They all stared at the picture curiously.

"It really looks like that?" Isabelle asked. Charlie nodded, and she smirked. "Phallic symbol, anybody?"

Charlie blinked, confused. Mark laughed. "That is one _large_ chimney," he agreed

Finally realizing what they meant, Charlie turned beet red and sputtered, "But . . . but the chimneys channel the smoke outside. They're not supposed to be dirty." Although, thinking of some of the rooms Wonka had in the factory, maybe they were. Wonka had an odd sense of humor about things like sex.

"Oh Charlie," Isabelle said, shaking her head fondly. "You have got a lot to learn."

Charlie blushed even deeper.

Mark glanced at the drawing again and grinned. "Hey," he said, "Do you guys remember when Wonka released those golden tickets when we were kids?"

John laughed. "I spent my entire allowance on candy bars that month," he said. "I had to get eight new fillings."

"Do you remember that?" Mark asked Charlie, and Charlie froze.

"Yeah," he said faintly.

Fortunately, Amy then asked Isabelle whether or not she should get her eyebrow pierced, and the subject moved away from the Wonka factory. Charlie smoked and thought about the factory, longing and betrayal blending together to create an ache just as bitter and intoxicating as the smoke slowly searing his throat. He finished the cigarette and stubbed it out on the ashtray.

Isabelle asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, trying to force a smile. She tilted her head, dark hair falling over her shoulder, and Charlie found himself mumbling, "I guess I'm still just kind of homesick."

She smiled gently, and patted his hand across the table. "I understand," she said. "I'd go insane if I couldn't go home on the weekends."

"It's good that you're getting out now," Mark said. "You need to keep yourself busy. Then you'll stop thinking of home so much."

"Maybe," Charlie said. Being with his suitemates here, at Anthony's, did feel better than sitting alone in his dorm room. Charlie could admit that to himself at least. But he couldn't imagine losing the dark string of loss connecting him back to the factory, to Willy Wonka. In a way, he didn't want to lose it.

Mark smiled gently at him, as if sensing his thoughts. "You will," he said. "Just give it time."

* * *

They got back to Walden Hall after midnight. Charlie said goodnight to his suitemates and disappeared back into the safety of his dorm room. Being alone was a relief, and Charlie focused on that. After so many years in the factory, too much time amongst other people, even his suitemates, left him feeling raw and on edge. He sat on his bed, reaching once more for Willy Wonka's pocket watch. He lifted it by its chain and swung it slowly, watching the lamplight dazzle against its cover. He started to click it open, to study the number of days remaining, even though he knew them by heart. Three hundred and fifty.

But something in him stopped the motion, and instead he placed the watch back in his pocket. Gretchen's right, he thought. I need to make the best of this.

Charlie placed the watch carefully on his night stand, and stripping out of his clothes, he quickly got ready for bed. That night, for the first time since coming to Fuller College, he didn't dream about the factory.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can't thank Reibish enough for all of her help with this story!

The next morning Charlie got home from class to find a familiar acrid smell wafting the corridor outside his suite. He opened the door to find the kitchen filled with dark smoke. Amy stood in the middle of it, coughing. She wore a pair of oven mitts and a flour-dusted apron. The dismantled smoke detector sat on the countertop beside her.

"Open the window!" Charlie snapped, taking charge of the situation by habit. During his long apprenticeship with Willy Wonka, he'd gotten very good at dealing with smoke, fire, noxious gas, and all of the other side effects of candy experiments gone awry.

Still looking dazed, Amy did as he said, also sliding open the balcony doors for good measure. Charlie switched on the stove's fan, and watched as the smoke began to drift feebly towards the open windows.

"Here," Amy said, and turning, he saw that she'd darted into Mark and John's room and removed the fan they kept there. They set it on the counter top and turned it on full blast. Finally, the smoke began to clear.

"Thanks," Amy said, looking sheepish.

"No problem," he said. "What happened?"

She pointed to the stovetop, where a scorched baking sheet held what looked like a dozen lumps of coal. "I was craving chocolate," she said, "So I wanted to make cookies. They, um, burned."

Charlie started to laugh, and she glared at him. "I'm sorry!" he said, still laughing. He tried to stop, but her wounded glare, the blackened cookies, and loud the hum of the fan combined to fill him with a hilarity he hadn't felt since leaving the factory. He laughed and laughed, feeling the wretchedness of the past two weeks rise up, wash over him, and flow away, driven away by his laughter just as surely as the smoke was dispersed out the window. When he finally recovered, clutching his ribs, Amy was staring at him with a strange, smirking expression that probably meant that she was trying very hard not to laugh herself.

"It's not that funny," she said, and he laughed again, weakly, clutching his ribs with pain.

"No," he choked. "It isn't." He grinned stupidly up at her, trying to think of a way to explain what had just happened. It was as if the laughter had shaken loose the desperate, lonely part of him, and now he laughed because only laughing could keep it at bay. But he didn't try to explain it. He didn't have words to describe the feeling. Instead he focused on the matter at hand.

"You said you were craving chocolate?" he said.

She nodded mournfully as she eyed the blackened cookies.

Charlie pulled himself to his feet and gestured for her to follow him. "Come on," he said. "I can't drive."

Amy gave him an odd look, but gamely fetched her keys from the basket by the door. "Where are we going?"

"To the grocers," said Charlie.

"But I wanted to _make_ something," she protested.

He grinned, and locked the door to their suite behind them. "Don't worry," he said. "We're going to make something all right."

* * *

Charlie banished Amy from the kitchen when they returned to Walden Hall an hour later, balancing grocery bags filled with Wonka bars and marshmallow cream.

"I'm sorry," Charlie said, "but it's a secret recipe."

"Hmmph," Amy muttered, plopping onto the sofa and studied him from the distance. Charlie risked a cautious glance at her, to find that she wasn't really upset. Her eyes were sparkling with the mystery of it all. "Where did you learn this secret recipe?" she asked.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I couldn't hear you over the fan." He blushed a little as he delivered the line, thinking that Wonka could have pulled it off more smoothly. But then, he was Willy Wonka, and practically born to be mysterious. Charlie was only himself, average and a little awkward. He felt relieved when Amy didn't repeat the question. He couldn't have handled lying to her again.

Charlie assembled his ingredients on the counter as Amy watched from the couch in the other room. The scrutiny made him a little nervous. He reminded himself that she couldn't possibly be spying for Slugworth or Ficklegruber. Surely the rival candy makers couldn't have infiltrated his dormitory -- that would be low, even for them. Even so, Charlie made sure to position his body to hide his measurements, smiling wryly at his own paranoia as he did so. Secrecy was the first lesson he'd learned at the Wonka factory, and the most often repeated. Let it never be said that Willy Wonka didn't learn from his mistakes. At least Charlie didn't need to worry about a recipe falling into the wrong hands -- he'd memorized this one long ago . . .

* * *

"What now?" Wonka asks, and Charlie bites his lip. Willy Wonka's tests might be funner than the ones Charlie had taken at school, but they are no less rigorous. In fact, Charlie dreads them far more than his old spelling exams. In school, he'd only had a grade riding on his performance. But here, he knows that the entire future of the factory rests on his ability to learn Wonka's lessons, to pass Wonka's tests. Charlie can float for days after one of Wonka's smiles; a frown is enough to send him scrabbling to his room to study.

"You add the marshmallow," Charlie says nervously.

Wonka beams at him, and steadies the vat full of gooey goodness. "Here," he says, congratulations on a job well done. "You do it."

Charlie pours the marshmallow cream into the cauldron, watching Willy Wonka stir it with the giant wooden spoon. The chocolatier has removed his jacket for the fudge making, and Charlie can see his back muscles straining beneath his thin paisley shirt. The sight makes Charlie's breath catch in his throat, and he's almost too distracted to answer the next question Wonka throws at him.

"How much marshmallow?"

"Um," Charlie racks his brain for the right answer. "Twelve gallons of marshmallow cream,' he says.

"Or?" Wonka prompts.

"Or twelve extra large gigantic marshmallows, melted with butter over low heat for five hours. Whichever's easier."

"Good," Wonka says. He hands the spoon to Charlie and steps back, rubbing his arms. "Here. You try it."

Charlie takes the spoon, feeling Wonka's eyes boring into his back. Oops. He'd almost started to stir the wrong way. Always stir clockwise, Wonka had chided him more than once. The spoon is awkward, and difficult to push through the thick chocolate. As usual, Wonka made the job look easier than it was. Charlie leans into the movement, stirring the fudge with all of the strength his young body can muster. He is stronger now, much stronger than when he first moved into the factory. But his early years of malnutrition have taken their toll: Charlie will always be small for his age. Still, he stirs without complaint, fascinated by the hypnotic ripples of white marshmallow dissolving into dark chocolate. They have machines to do the stirring of course, and the Oompa-Loompas are always ready to assist with tasks like this, but Wonka has insisted that Charlie master the basics. Now, straining to stir the cauldron, Charlie is glad. Heat sears his face, his arms ache, and he suspects he may get blisters, even with his violet latex gloves. Even so, there is no place in the world that Charlie would rather be.

"All right," Wonka says, when Charlie suspects that he might not be able to stir any longer. "That's enough."

Charlie gratefully relinquishes the spoon and steps away from the cauldron. Between the heat and the stirring, he is flushed and sweaty, so he strips away his sweater, tossing it into the corner to join Wonka's jacket. He can feel the chocolatier watching him, and he blushes for no reason. Wonka peers into the cauldron and smiles.

"Good!" he says. "It's ready to cool. Next time, you can try it by yourself, Charlie."

But next time doesn't go so smoothly. Charlie follows the steps that he has memorized, feeling nervous under Wonka's careful scrutiny. The chocolatier's eyes are enough to unnerve him, and more than once, he catches himself almost adding a wrong ingredient, or starting to stir the wrong way. All in all, they're both relieved when Charlie announces that his batch is ready to cool.

Wonka steps forward and peers into the cauldron, giving a short nod of his head to show that Charlie's timing is correct. Lifting the spoon, he runs his gloved finger along the fudge gathered there, wincing only a little from the heat. Charlie watches with apprehension as Wonka lifts the finger to his mouth, tastes . . . and glances down with barely contained disappointment.

"I messed up," Charlie says bitterly.

"No," Wonka said, with his depressingly fake cheerfulness. "You followed the recipe exactly. Here." And repeating the sweeping motion along the spoon, he offers his finger to Charlie, who leans forward and licks the chocolate off of it, a strangely intimate gesture that would have been unthinkable two years before, but now seems perfectly natural to both of them. The taste and texture of fudge fill his mouth. It's good. It's rich and chewy and wonderfully tasty, but that's all. It doesn't melt in his mouth. It doesn't make his eyes roll back with bliss. Charlie has followed the recipe to the letter, but that special something that makes Wonka chocolate the best in the world is painfully lacking.

"What did I do?" Charlie whispers, not quite able to meet his mentor's eyes.

"Nothing," Wonka said. "I should have known this would happen." He sighs heavily. Now he, too, seems to be avoiding making eye contact. "Candy making isn't a science, Charlie, it's an art. And because it's an art, certain elements can't be taught. You'll either pick them up as time goes by, or else you won't." His eyes are deeply troubled for a moment, and Charlie wants to cry or throw something. Both of them are wondering whether Wonka made a mistake in choosing Charlie to be his heir. Charlie lacks Wonka's genius, they've known that for years, but he's a hard worker, and inventive enough in his own way. But if a simple batch of fudge is beyond him . . .

"There's no use worrying about it now," Wonka says, too brightly. "Come on, Charlie. Let's go see how the latest experiment turned out, 'kay?"

But Charlie does worry. That night, he stays up late writing out the fudge recipe and painstakingly scaling it down to a more manageable size. When his mother finds him the next morning, he's stirring over the stovetop at their old cottage, practically in tears.

"Why Charlie, what's the matter?"

She steps into the kitchen and peers over Charlie's shoulder. The fudge is ready to cool now, but Charlie can already tell that it will taste the same as his last batch did. Once again, Charlie hasn't managed to duplicate whatever magic Wonka uses to make his candy taste so gosh darn good.

"I can't do it!" he cries angrily, wiping his eyes. "I just can't! Taste it!"

And he shoves the saucepan towards his mother, who tastes it with one finger and smiles.

"It tastes very good to me, Charlie," she says.

"Very good," Charlie says. "That's all. It's not wonderful. It's not delicious. It's the exact same recipe Mr. Wonka uses, but mine doesn't taste like his!"

"Calm down, Charlie," Mrs. Bucket says.

He slumps into the corner of the kitchen nearest the stove, crossing his arms over his chest. Mrs. Bucket tastes the fudge again, then pats Charlie's shoulder. "Calm down," she says again. "I'm not sure why your fudge doesn't taste like Mr. Wonka's, darling. Maybe that just takes practice. But I do know that you can't cook anything when you're in a tizzy like this."

"I'm not in a tizzy," Charlie snaps. His mother only looks at him, and he sighs.

"Charlie," his mother says, "Cooking is more than just tossing a bunch of ingredients into a pan and hoping they turn out all right. You have to really care about what you're making, about the people you're going to feed. Something of you goes into the recipe, Charlie. I'm sure that candy-making works the same way. Maybe that's why your fudge doesn't taste like Willy's. But if you keep trying it when you're upset and too nervous to concentrate, you're only going to spoil it. Okay?"

Charlie nods, shamefaced, and she kisses his cheek. "Run along and play," she says. "I'll clean up in here."

Charlie nods, and escapes into the chocolate room. He lounges in the swudge by the chocolate river, hitches a ride on the gondola as it passes by. That afternoon, he explores the factory again, trying to see it again for the first time, to remember that spark of wonder that ignited in him upon his first visit here.

When he returns to the cottage again that afternoon, Charlie attempts the fudge again, this time, refusing to dwell on his anxiety. Instead, he thinks about Willy Wonka, about the electric joy that radiates from the man whenever he is truly pleased about something. The light in his eyes. His gloved hand catching Charlie's. _But my dear boy, that means you've won!_

The memory warms Charlie from head to toe, and as he stirs, he imagines that warmth pressing out through his hand, traveling along the length of the spoon and infusing the fudge with wonder. He wants his chocolate to impress Wonka. He wants it to inspire that radiant joy. He wants to make fudge that will show Willy Wonka exactly how important he is to Charlie.

When Charlie nervously goes looking for the chocolatier a few hours later, he finds Wonka in his office, dictating a letter to his secretary. The sound of his voice carries through the hallway, along with the sharp clickety-clack of typewriter keys. Wonka is pacing back and forth as he speaks; the carpet around his desk is worn thin from it.

"Furthermore," Mr. Wonka says, "I find your newest line of chewing gum suspiciously similar to my own, which, as you'll remember, was patented three years before Slugworth's Finest Chewing Gum hit the market. For that reason, I'm demanding that you cease production immediately and recall all products that -- Charlie! No, strike that, Doris," (for the Oompa-Loompa had obediently followed his words verbatim). "Let's stop for a second," Wonka says. And turning to the doorway, he beckons Charlie into the office.

"Come in," he urges. "Come in, my boy. No need to hang about in the doorway like a shy old rabbit. Whatever do you need?"

Charlie stumbles forward nervously and shoves a carefully wrapped piece of fudge in Wonka's direction before he loses his nerve. "Taste this," he whispers.

Wonka's eyes widen, but he takes the fudge, unwrapping it carefully and sniffing it before he finally lifts it to his lips and nibbles one corner. Charlie's stomach tightens nervously as Wonka chews. The chocolatier's eyes, usually so expressive, are completely unreadable.

Finally Wonka swallows and whispers, "Is this . . .?"

"Yeah," Charlie said. "I made it this afternoon."

A delighted grin breaks across Wonka's face, and he lunges forward, sweeping Charlie into a rare but exhilarating embrace, squeezing so tight that it lifts him off his feet. "My dear boy!" Wonka cries. "You did it! You finally did it! Oh, I'm delighted, I really am. Well done." He sets Charlie down, still beaming at him. "And how very industrious of you to practice on your own! Now tell me, Charlie, what did you do differently?"

A blush. "I was thinking about you," Charlie admits. "I wanted to make you happy."

"And you did," Wonka assures him. "The emotional component is the most important part of chocolate making. Oh, I wanted to tell you Charlie, it was very hard not to, but I knew you'd need to figure it out on your own. And you did! Cancel my inspection of the panda-grooming room, Doris! Charlie and I need to celebrate."

* * *

In his dorm kitchen, Charlie looked into the saucepan and sighed, knowing that this batch was bound to end up bittersweet. His memories of Wonka had grown too dark to properly sweeten fudge.

"What's wrong?" Amy asked from the living room, and Charlie shrugged.

"Nothing," he said. "Just thinking." A thought occurred to him, and he said, "Would you talk to me?"

"Talk to you?"

"Distract me," Charlie said. "I need to think of something happy."

Amy thought for a second, and then she said, "Do you know that Mark's afraid of spiders?"

"What?" Charlie said.

"He is," Amy said. "He's terrified of them." A devilish smile lit her face and she said, "John and I put a fake one on his pillow this morning. Don't tell. Mark's going to freak out when he sees it."

"That's horrible!" Charlie said, laughing despite himself.

Amy grinned. "Isn't it?"

By the time Charlie's other suitemates came home, no hint of smoke remained in the air. Instead, the kitchen, their suite (and, indeed, their entire building) was filled with the deliciously intoxicating scent of chocolate.

"What are you making?" John asked, stepping into the suite with an expression of wonder on his face. Mark and Isabelle followed, breathing in deeply.

"Fudge!" Amy cried from the sofa. "Our Charlie has hidden talents."

She'd distracted him throughout the fudge making process, sharing funny stories about the other suitemates, about her professors, and about her family. To his surprise, Charlie had gradually come to enjoy having an audience, especially one that didn't scrutinize his every move as Wonka did. He'd even found himself copying a few of Wonka's more flamboyant gestures for her amusement. She'd clapped when he tossed the spoon into the air and spun on his heels to catch it with the other hand.

Mark peered into the kitchen, where Charlie was studying several cooling trays of fudge. "Holy shit!" he gasped. "How much did you make?"

"A lot," Charlie admitted, studying one tray of fudge and deciding that it was finally cool enough to cut. "I'm used to making large batches," he said.

"Well, we're not complaining," Isabelle said, stepping into the kitchen as well. "It smells delicious."

"It's ready," Charlie said, and his suitemates dived for the tray at once. Charlie watched anxiously, trying to calm the small thread of anxiety he felt whenever anyone tasted his candy. But identical smiles of delight passed across their faces as they tried his fudge.

"My God," Isabelle breathed, her eyes drifting shut as she let the fudge dissolve against her tongue, "This is even better than my grandma's!"

"Where did you learn how to make this?" John asked.

Charlie's shoulders slumped. He couldn't bring himself to lie to them. "I learned from Willy Wonka," he admitted.

They all stared at him. After a moment, John said, "You're joking."

"No," Charlie said. "I'm not." And he told them how he'd found a golden ticket and become the heir to the Wonka factory. By the time he finished, they were all staring at him in slack-jawed amazement.

"This is really Willy Wonka's fudge recipe?" Amy asked, staring at the plates of fudge with awe.

"More or less," Charlie said. "I had to modify a few things. Some of the ingredients aren't available here."

Mark shook his head. "That's . . . an odd story," he said. "But I suppose it explains a few things. You really grew up in a chocolate factory?"

Charlie nodded. "I've hardly left it since I moved in."

"That sounds horrible!" Isabelle said.

"No! It's the best place on earth," Charlie said. "I didn't want to leave."

John shook his head. "I still can't believe that Willy Wonka decided to find an heir by sending out five golden tickets. It's insane! Anyone in the world could have found one!"

"The plan worked," Charlie said, oddly defensive on the chocolatier's behalf, despite his anger at him. "He found me."

Isabelle was frowning. "But why doesn't he have any kids of his own?"

The thought of Willy Wonka as a father made Charlie grin. "He's not exactly the parenting type," Charlie said.

"Can you make other candy too?" Amy asked hopefully.

"Of course," Charlie said. "Mr. Wonka's been tutoring me since I moved into the factory."

"Can you make everlasting gobstoppers?"

"I can," Charlie said, "but not here. They require some rather . . . specialized equipment." She drooped a little. To cheer her up, he said, "I can make taffy, though. We could do that next weekend if you'd like."

"Can you make ice cream?" she asked.

"Sure," Charlie said.

"What about licorice?"

Mark took her firmly by the shoulders. "Amy," he said, "Charlie is probably sick of making candy if he's been doing it since he was a kid. Why don't you cool it a little?"

"I'd never get tired of making chocolate!" Charlie said. "It's my favorite thing in the world!"

Amy grinned at him. "Charlie," she said, "You're my new best friend."

"Wait a second," John said. "If you're going to inherit a chocolate factory, what are you doing here? I didn't think you needed college to make chocolate."

Charlie glared at the fudge. "Mr. Wonka made me come," he said.

"He's making you study art?" John asked cynically.

"He made me leave the factory," Charlie clarified. "I don't think he really cared what I did. He said he'd send me anywhere in the world."

Mark stared at him. "You could have gone anywhere in the world, and you chose _Washington_?"

"Well, I didn't exactly choose it," Charlie said. Taking a deep breath, he told them about the globe room. His voice broke a few times during the story, and at one point, Isabelle calmly handed him a tissue.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, dabbing at his eyes. "It's just . . . you guys are great, but I didn't want to leave the factory. I'd give anything to be back there now."

His suitemates looked at each other. "It's only one year," Mark said. "It'll go fast, you'll see."

"It isn't so far," Charlie said. "I feel like I've been here for years."

"That's just because that's all you're thinking about," Mark said. "You just need to get your mind off it."

Isabelle nodded. "He's right," she said. "It's like when you're sick. The more you think about it, the worse you feel."

Amy grinned at Charlie. "Don't worry," she said. "We can keep you so busy that you hardly even remember the factory. By the time this year is over, you won't even want to go back."

* * *

"Scrumdiddilyumptious," Charlie said. "I believe that's fifty points." He grinned triumphantly over the Scrabble board, and his suitemates gaped at him.

"No way!" John said. "That's not a real word."

Charlie climbed to his feet and disappeared into his room. He emerged carrying the large leather-bound dictionary that Wonka had given him when Charlie began his formal tutoring at the factory. "Scrumdiddilyumptious," he read. "Adjective. Spectacularly delicious and mouthwateringly good."

"Give me that!" John said, snatching the dictionary out of Charlie's hands. His face darkened as he read the entry, and he sighed, shoving the dictionary back at Charlie. "Fine," he said. "You win again."

Charlie grinned, and started to clear the game off the coffee table. As he did, he found the fake spider hiding in the corner of the Scrabble box, and he sighed, pocketing it. Amy and John hadn't realized what they were starting when they put the spider on Mark's pillow last week. Mark had retaliated by dropping the spider into Amy's make-up bag, and Amy, in turn, had hidden it in the butter dish. John had found it there, and placed it with Mark's coffee beans. After Mark recovered from finding it there, he'd hidden it in Charlie's backpack. Now they had a running contest to see who could put the spider in the craziest location. Charlie had just begun debating whether to stick it in Amy's cigarette carton or on top of John's DVD player when the phone rang in his room.

"Hello?" he said, answering it.

"Hi, Darling," his mother said.

"Oh. Hi, Mum." He'd forgotten that she normally called on Tuesdays.

"How are you?" Mrs. Bucket asked.

Charlie grinned. "I'm great!" he said. "I just beat Mark, John and Amy at Scrabble. And we're going to a concert tonight! Amy knows somebody in the band!"

"Well that sounds fun," she said. "I'm glad to hear you finally sounding happy."

"I'm a lot better," Charlie said. "I wish you could meet my friends. I think you'd really like them." Although even as he said that, he wondered what she'd think of Mark's tattoos or Amy's nose ring or Isabelle's "Vagina Monologues" sweatshirt.

"I'm sure I would," Mrs. Bucket said. "How are your classes?"

"They're fun. I'm working on a still-life drawing right now." For his arrangement, he was using a handful of Wonka bars, with the fake spider peaking out from behind them. "How's everything at home?" Charlie asked.

She hesitated. When she spoke again, her voice sounded more serious. "Darling," she said,"Have you talked to Willy at all since you left?"

Charlie scowled. "No," he said. "He writes to me sometimes." Every day, still, in fact, but his mother didn't need to know that.

"Have you written him back?" Charlie didn't say anything. Mrs. Bucket sighed. "Charlie," she said. "I wish that you'd forgive him. He's miserable without you."

"Has he told you that?" Charlie asked.

"Well, no. Your father and I hardly see him anymore. He's stopped eating dinner with us. I'm not even sure that he's eating at all. The Oompa-Loompas are all frightfully worried about him."

The thought of Willy Wonka being miserable filled Charlie equally with worry and spite. In his dorm room, with his friends waiting for him in the living room and the factory a million miles away, the spite won out. "He made me leave," Charlie said. "He should feel bad. If he really misses me that much, he should let me come back."

"Things aren't always that simple, Charlie," his mother said.

Charlie glared at the framed picture of Wonka on his wall. "I miss him, too," he said. "But I'm doing okay."

"You have your friends to distract you and keep you busy, Charlie. Willy doesn't have anybody."

Charlie gripped the phone. His mother's words reminded him uncomfortably of the ones Wonka had written, in the letter he'd sent with the pocket watch. Charlie had them memorized. _ You have begun a grand adventure, while I remain at home in the factory, where every single room now reminds me of you. _

"Mr. Wonka lived alone for fifteen years," Charlie said, trying to ease the spark of guilt inside of him. "I'm sure he's fine."

"I'm not so sure, Charlie," Mrs. Bucket said. He didn't respond, and she sighed. "All right," she said. "I'm not going to nag you. But please consider writing to him."

"I'll think about it," Charlie said. They spoke for a few minutes longer, idle talk about Charlie's classes and home. When Charlie finally hung up, all of his earlier happiness had drained away.

He sat down on the bed, glaring at Wonka's picture. As much as he wanted to hate the chocolatier for making him leave the factory, a part of him wanted nothing more than to call Wonka and make sure that the older man was okay. The familiar sting of longing mixed with anger burned him suddenly, like a half-forgotten wound rubbed raw with salt.

A knocking on the door frame drew him out of his thoughts, and he glanced up to see Isabelle leaning in the doorway, an expression of concern on her face. "Hey," she said. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Charlie said. "I'm fine."

And he was, he thought. He was managing to enjoy this year away from the factory, hard as it might be at times -- if Wonka couldn't do the same, tough. It was his own fault. Forcing a smile, he stepped out of the room, towards his suitemates, doing his best to leave his thoughts of Wonka behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pleased to announce a new addition to the beta team --thank you, Trilliah for your insightful comments and suggestions. As always, thanks also to Reibish for your continued patience with this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

"Have you decided on a costume yet?" Amy asked Charlie as she plopped onto the sofa beside him and peered over his shoulder at his sketchbook.

"Costume?" Charlie asked blankly. He'd been sketching isabelle as she read in the armchair by the window, trying to catch the precise angle of her chin tilted down towards the pages. Isabelle glanced up at the sound of Amy's voice, and Charlie motioned her to resume her old posture. Sighing dramatically, she did so, a small smile lingering at the corners of her mouth.

"For Halloween," Amy said, sounding affronted. "What else?"

"Oh." Charlie selected a darker pencil and carefully began shading Isabelle's long dark hair. "I haven't celebrated Halloween in years," he admitted.

Charlie vaguely remembered trick-or-treating as a child. He'd always gone as a ghost, because it was the cheapest costume his parents could make. The Bucket family's sheets were already so ratty that nobody ever minded a pair of eye holes cut into them. Charlie remembered the excitement of coming home with a bag of candy, which he'd always shared with his family. Between the seven of them, they could make one bag last for weeks. But Halloween began to lose its significance after he moved into the factory. What was one bag of candy when you lived in the greatest chocolate factory in the world? Besides, Willy Wonka had some strange aversion to the holiday, despite the surplus business it brought him. If anybody so much as mentioned Halloween, Wonka's lips tightened and is eyes hazed out in that way that meant he was having a flashback.

"How can you not celebrate Halloween?" Amy asked. "It's the best holiday ever!"

"I like Christmas better," Isabelle said, glancing over at them before she remembered to hold her posture.

"Christmas is fun," Amy said, "But you can't dress up for Christmas."

"You could if you wanted to," Charlie pointed out. "You'd just look weird."

Amy swatted his shoulder.

Isabelle asked, "Which is your favorite holiday, Charlie?"

"I like Christmas too," he said. He'd never forget his first Christmas in the factory; he'd woken up that morning to find a magnificent Christmas tree sparkling in the cottage's living room, presents piled high beneath it. There had been a sled among them, a toboggan fashioned out of hard candy, and he and Wonka had tested it out on Fudge Mountain, while Charlie's parents and grandparents watched and warned them to be careful.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" Amy asked.

Charlie shrugged. "Staying here, I guess." Truthfully, he hadn't even thought about the holiday yet.

"Willy Wonka won't even let you go home for Christmas break?" Isabelle asked.

"I doubt it," Charlie said. "He said I needed to leave for a whole year."

Isabelle frowned. "Have you asked him?"

"No," Charlie said. "I haven't talked to him at all since I left. And I'm not going to call him," he added, reading her expression. "If he wants me to come home, he can damn well ask me himself."

"Did Charlie just swear?" John yelled from his bedroom.

"Yes!" Amy called back.

"Make sure you tally it!"

Amy grinned, and crossed to the chalkboard they'd hung next to the refrigerator. The chalkboard held two columns. One read "Damn." The other read "Darnit." Amy added another tally mark to the "damn" column, and grinned.

"They're almost equal this week," she said. "You keep this up, and you won't have to do the dishes again this quarter."

"I know," Charlie said, smiling proudly. The suitemates had decided as a group that Charlie needed to learn how to swear. So far, he was catching on marvelously.

From the armchair, Isabelle studied Charlie over the top of her glasses. "I still think you should call him," she said. "Maybe he's been too afraid to call you. He probably thinks you're still mad at him."

"I am still mad at him," Charlie said.

She shook her head. She might have said more, but Amy scowled at both of them, exasperated.

"Why are you talking about Christmas when _Halloween_ is just around the corner? Honestly! What are you guys doing for Halloween?"

"I'm going home for the weekend," Isabelle said. "I haven't seen Zach in awhile."

Amy rolled her eyes. "You saw Zach last weekend. Honestly! Ask Charlie if you want to talk about someone who hasn't been home in awhile --" she broke off suddenly, glancing at Charlie apologetically. Isabelle glared at her. "Shit," Amy muttered. "Sorry, Charlie."

"That's okay," Charlie mumbled.

Amy patted his shoulder awkwardly. "Do you have any plans for Halloween?" she asked, almost managing to sound lighthearted.

Charlie shrugged. "Not really."

A mischievous gleam kindled in Amy's eyes. Leaning forward, she said, "My friend Nicole is having a Halloween party. She lives off campus. You should come with me."

Isabelle frowned. "I'm not sure that's a good idea," she said, before Charlie could reply. "Charlie doesn't even drink."

"I did once," Charlie said, slightly affronted. Wonka had let him try a glass of butterscotch once, on Charlie's sixteenth birthday. Charlie hadn't liked it much; it had burned his throat, despite its sweetness. Wonka had confessed that he didn't like it either; he made it mostly for the Oompa-Loompas, he said.

"I won't let anything happen to Charlie," Amy said. "Besides, Mark's going to be there, too. He already said he'd come."

"I suppose it's okay then," Isabelle said. "But don't drive. I don't want you getting in an accident."

"We won't," Amy promised. "Nicole lives on High Street. It's only a few blocks away from campus. Are we on then, Charlie?"

"Yeah," Charlie said. "It's a plan."

"Great," Amy said. "What about you, John?" she yelled. "Do you want to come?"

"I'm gaming that night," John yelled back.

"Nerd," Amy said, loud enough for John to hear it in the bedroom. He just snickered, and kept typing at his computer.

Charlie frowned. "I'll have to find a costume if I'm going to a Halloween party," he said.

"Do you have anything in your closet that might work?" Isabelle asked him.

Charlie considered the contents of his wardrobe, and grinned. "Only if I want to go as Willy Wonka," he said.

"No," Isabelle said. "We're getting your mind off the factory, remember?"

"Wait a second," Amy said. "What does Willy Wonka wear?"

Charlie told her.

She laughed and clapped her hands. "You really have a top hat?"

"I never wear it," Charlie said.

"Can I borrow it sometime?" Amy asked. "I love hats."

"Sure."

Amy beamed at him. "I love you, Charlie! There's nothing better than a man who will make me candy and let me borrow his clothes."

Isabelle caught sight of Charlie's expression, and laughed. "Don't worry, Charlie," she said. "You're safe. Amy has a crush on Mark, not you."

Amy turned beet red. Charlie stared at her. "You have a crush on _Mark_?"

"Kind of," she admitted. "But don't say anything to him, okay? I don't want things to get weird. You know, since we live together and all."

"I won't," Charlie promised.

"We still need to find you a costume though," Amy said, looking glad to change the subject. "Halloween's in a couple of days."

She and Isabelle glanced at each other. Isabelle grinned. "Value Village?"

Amy nodded. "You bet."

* * *

They left for Value Village as soon as Mark came home from class. Eventually, they decided on a ridiculously large cowboy hat. Amy squealed when Mark set it on top of Charlie's head, and Isabelle clapped her hands together.

"Yes!" Amy cried. "It's perfect! Charlie, you're going as a cowboy."

"Don't I get a say in this?" Charlie asked.

"No," the girls said together.

Mark laughed and clapped Charlie on the shoulder. "Here's your first rule for living in the real world, man," he said. "Never, ever, ever argue with women. It is just not worth the effort."

In the end, Charlie bought his cowboy boots new. None of the ones in the thrift store fit him. Isabelle had been shocked that he was willing to spend fifty dollars on boots for a Halloween costume, but Willy Wonka had given Charlie a credit card before he'd left.

"Get whatever you'd like," Wonka had said. "I want you to enjoy yourself, Charlie."

So far, Charlie had only used it to by textbooks, groceries, and the occasional pizza. He figured Wonka wouldn't mind the boots. Besides, he kind of liked them. They were black leather and heeled, much like Wonka's own.

From the Western Wear shop where Charlie bought his boots, they drove to a pumpkin patch Mark knew of north of town. It was several miles out in the county, a muddy field filled with broad leaves and pumpkins ranging in color from green to deep orange.

The farmer who owned the patch lent them a wheelbarrow and a pair of gardening shears. Mark hoisted the wheelbarrow. Charlie took the shears, mostly to keep them away from Amy, who probably couldn't be trusted not to run with sharp objects. As a group, they trudged into the field, breathing in the sharp autumn air.

Charlie carefully picked his way through a row of pumpkins, finally kneeling beside one that had only started to turn orange. He cut the vine and lifted it carefully, smearing his hands with mud. By habit, he almost brought his hand to his mouth and licked it -- fortunately, the smell of rich loam caught him, and he dropped the hand before his suitemates caught the action. Strange, he thought, to know that this pumpkin wouldn't split open to reveal liquid chocolate. The thought pleased him in a way. He felt real here, holding a pumpkin and getting mud on his clothes. He had friends. He'd be carving a jack-o-lantern. Was this what Wonka had wanted him to find?

"When was the last time you carved a pumpkin?" Amy said as she fell in behind him. She'd found not one, but two pumpkins, and carried them carefully, one in each arm.

"Um, never," Charlie admitted. Pumpkins never grew well in his parents' patch of garden, and they couldn't afford to waste money on a jack-o-lantern. At the factory, of course, he'd had jack-o-lanterns a plenty, but they'd been carved from hard candy, luminescent from within.

Amy shook her head mournfully at him. "You have so much to learn," she said.

"Are you guys ready?" Mark asked. He and John had already found their pumpkins.

"Yeah," Charlie said.

"Great!" Mark said. "Let's get back. I want to carve these things tonight."

* * *

Pumpkin carving turned out to be even more fun than Charlie expected.

"This is great!" he cried, reaching into his pumpkin to pull out a handful of gloppy seeds. Now he knew why they'd never carved real pumpkins at the factory; he couldn't imagine the fastidious Wonka wanting to dirty his gloves with pumpkin guts.

"Isn't it?" John asked. "This is my favorite part! It's like scooping out brains."

"How would you know what brains feel like?" Mark asked him.

Isabelle tapped the side of her hollowed pumpkin, and sighed. "It's all death," she said.

"What is?" Charlie asked her.

"This whole holiday," Isabelle said. Closing her eyes, she recited:

"Tonight it is our own mortality  
we mock with a cartoon grimace,  
our own bones we peel to, dancing,  
our own end we celebrate.  
Long night of sugar and skull  
when we put on death's clothes  
and play act it like children."

"Did you make that up?" Charlie asked.

She smiled wistfully. "I wish. That's Marge Piercy. She's my favorite poet."

"I like it," Charlie assured her. She smiled shyly.

"It's a season for dying," Mark said simply. "It's the autumn equinox. The days get darker from here on in. If we still lived in an agricultural society, this would mark the beginning of cold and hungry season."

"You guys are depressing me," Amy said, rolling her eyes. "Everybody knows that people celebrate Halloween for the candy. Are you with me, Charlie?"

"Sure," Charlie said.

She hugged him, briefly. "That's my boy!" she cried.

He closed his eyes, gripping the carving tool tightly.

"What is it?" Amy asked.

He shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "You just reminded me of someone for a second."

"Mr. Wonka?" Isabelle asked.

Charlie smiled tightly. "Yeah," he said.

Mark frowned at him, concerned. Charlie pasted a grin on his face, and twirled the carving tool in his hand.

"So what's this party going to be like?" he asked Amy.

She grinned. "It'll be crazy," she said.

* * *  
The house on High St. turned out to be a large, ramshackle building lit by strings of purple lights and filled to the brim with college students. Music blasted out of it, clearly audible from the street, and punctuated by the loud sound of laughter.

"I'm not so sure about this, guys," Mark said. "This place is pretty loud. Someone might call the cops."

"So we'll be careful," Amy said. "If it looks like things are getting out of hand, we'll leave. Does that sound all right, Charlie?"

"Sure," Charlie said nervously, eyeing the house. He felt vaguely ridiculous in his cowboy hat, and his feet were starting to hurt from the new boots.

Three vampires, a satyr, and a pregnant nun were smoking in a cluster in the yard, which had been fashioned into an elaborate cemetery filled with styrofoam gravestones. They stared at Charlie and his suitemates as they made their way up the walkway, which was surrounded on either side by thick ivy.

"I'm kind of nervous," Charlie confessed, as they approached the house.

"Don't worry," Amy said. "You'll be fine. Just smile. And talk a lot. Everyone will love your accent so much that they won't even notice what you're saying."

They pressed through a group of super heroes chatting on the front porch, and stepped into the house.

If the music had been loud outside, inside, it was nearly unbearable. The bass beat nearly shook the house, and Charlie, unused to this much noise, felt himself growing dizzy and afraid. A group of girls danced in the living room, spinning and stamping to the pounding drums. A sign beside the door read, "Dionysus is in this house. Do homage to him." Charlie blinked stupidly at it, but then Amy caught his arm and propelled him forward.

The house smelled like cigarette smoke, incense, and something bitter and vile. "What is that?" he asked, practically screaming to be heard over the music.

"It's pot," Mark yelled back. "Just relax. You don't need to have any if you don't want to."

"Amy!" someone yelled, and Charlie turned to see a tall, blonde girl wearing a short linen shift, a cardboard helmet, and leather armor running towards them. She hugged Amy briefly, and said, "I'm so glad you came!"

"It looks fun," Amy said. "Guys, this is Nicole, from my math class. Nicole, these are my suitemates, Mark and Charlie."

"S'nice to meet you," Nicole said, as she took Mark's hand, then Charlie's. Her hand was cold and limp, and she held on a second too long. "So you're a cowboy?" she said to Charlie.

He nodded. "Yeah. I am."

She gaped at him a moment, and then threw her head back and laughed. "Where did you find him?" she asked Amy. "His accent is adorable!"

"Isn't it?" Amy said. "He's from England."

Nicole smiled, and gripped his arm. "You come with me," she said. "I want to show you off." And she started to push Charlie through the crowd.

He turned back to give one desperate look at Mark and Amy. Amy grinned at him, giving him a thumbs up, and Mark smiled encouragingly. Nicole steered him around the corner into the kitchen, and Charlie lost sight of his friends.

"Everybody!" Nicole cried. "I want you to meet Charlie! He's from Australia!"

"England," Charlie corrected, but his voice was quiet, and couldn't be heard in the noise.

A cluster of girls standing by the stove smiled at him. They all wore loose white dresses draped with animal skins, and leaves and bits of bone were tangled in their wild hair. One of them had a snake twined around her arm. She smiled ferally at Charlie, a flash of white teeth beneath red-stained lips.

"Charlie," she said in a throaty voice. "Come play with us."

He smiled shyly, desperately glancing at the doorway in hopes that Mark or Amy had followed him. One of the girls placed a plastic cup in his hand, and he sniffed it. The smell of alcohol and fruit almost overpowered him.

"That's our own special house brew," Nicole said. "You'll never find another drink like it." He sipped it, tentatively. It tasted like grape cough syrup, and the alcohol burned his tongue. The butterscotch had been a million times tastier.

"Drink up," the girl holding the snake said.

He swallowed with some effort, and forced himself to take another sip. It wasn't bad once you got used to it, he decided. He drank again, and then again, trying to look like he fit belonged here. The snake flicked its tongue out at him. Charlie stepped back, slightly nervous.

Nicole spied somebody else and stumbled out of the room, waving, leaving Charlie standing awkwardly amidst the group of girls.

"So you're a cowboy," the girl with the snake said.

He nodded. "What are you?"

"We're Maenads," she said, smiling wickedly. "Watch out, or we might rip you up. We killed Orpheus, you know." She licked her lips.

"Don't scare him, Claudia," a new voice said, and Charlie turned to see another girl wander into the kitchen. She was dressed as a gypsy fortune teller, her dark curly hair pulled back in a scarf. "You know how Bachus hates bloodstains on the floor," she continued, and the maenads laughed.

"I'm Minerva," the new girl said to Charlie. "Do you want me to read your palm?"

"Sure," he said, swallowing nervously, and held out his hand.

She took it, bringing it up to the light. "You can tell a lot from the shape of a hand," she said. "Your palm is pretty square. That indicates strong values, and a practical nature. But your hand gets a bit curvier here, where it meets the wrist. You're going into a profession that requires a lot of creativity. And do you see how your fingers are wide and kind of knotty? You see that a lot in inventors and engineers."

She motioned for him to hold out the other hand, too, and he did so, feeling stupid. She held them side by side, studying them intently. Her glasses slipped down her face, and for a second, she seemed more a student than a gypsy fortune teller.

Finally she glanced up at him and asked, "Are you right-handed?" He nodded, and she smiled. "I thought so. See, your left hand shows all of your inborn characteristics. It's the way your life would look if you were born and died with no outside influences whatsoever. Your dominant hand shows the traits you picked up during your life, and all of the lessons you've learned. Do you see the difference between them? The life line especially has changed. You were born sickly, and originally destined for a short life with lots of health problems. But look at your right hand -- it's got the longest and deepest life line I've ever seen. You're going to have a very full and adventurous life now. You'll also be very, very wealthy.

"You met your soul mate early," she said, tracing a line near the top of his hand. "And you're going to have a very long and very deep relationship. But there's some trouble here," she said. "The line breaks up, then starts again. A separation. Did you leave her for college?"

"Him," Charlie whispered, feeling his ears grow hot.

"Oh. Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have assumed. Well, you'll want to be careful," she said. "Whoever he is, he's temperamental and secretive, but he cares about you deeply. You could have a rewarding relationship, but you'll lose him if you're not careful."

Charlie swallowed. She traced a line lower down on his palm, and frowned. "This is odd . . .

"What is it?" Charlie asked.

She traced a line on his palm, frowning a little. "This is your head line," she said. "It shows your basic attitude towards life. It breaks up a bit here, showing that you had a tremendous change of thought in early adolescence. But it's kind of weird. I've seen squiggles in the head line before. Sometimes squares, sometimes circles, sometimes diamonds. But this looks more like a W. I'm not really sure what it means."

"That's okay," Charlie said, taking back his hands. "I've got an idea."

She glanced at him curiously, but he refused to elaborate. Finally she just laughed. "Well, you've definitely got an unusual life," she said. "Thanks for letting me read your palm."

"Thank you," Charlie said faintly. Taking his drink from the counter, he fled the kitchen, feeling shaken to the core.

_You'll lose him if you're not careful._

He finally found Mark in the living room room, sitting on a leather armchair and smoking a glass pipe.

"Hey Charlie," Mike said, exhaling a burst of bitter smoke and passing the pipe to a longhaired boy who wore a crown of leaves and berries in his hair. Charlie sat on the arm of Mark's chair, gripping his drink tightly.

"Are you okay?" Mark asked, studying him carefully.

"I think I'm kind of drunk," Charlie said. Mark laughed. Leaning forward, he found a beer in the cooler on the floor, and handed that to Charlie.

"We'd better make that really drunk," he said.

Charlie fumbled with the beer bottle, before Mark took it back and opened it for him.

"There you are!" Amy cried. She pushed through the crowd and sank onto the floor beside their chair. "Isn't this great?" she asked Charlie.

"It's kind of weird," he said.

Mark passed her the pipe, and she inhaled greedily. "Want some?" she asked Charlie, and he shook his head, almost desperately.

She laughed, and passed it back to Mark. He brought it to his lips. His eyes were drifting shut. Charlie sipped his beer, hoping that the party would be over soon. He wondered what Wonka would say if he found him here. If Charlie concentrated hard enough, he could almost pretend that Wonka stood in the doorway, staring down at Charlie with that sad look of disappointment he wore whenever Charlie managed to displease him.

After awhile, Mark stood. He asked Amy where the bathroom was, and she pointed towards the hallway. He took off towards it, weaving a little. Amy pulled herself onto the chair beside Charlie.

"I don't think he even knows I'm alive," she said, leaning against his shoulder.

"He knows," Charlie said, trying to sound happy.

"Amy!" someone cried. Nicole stumbled back into the room, holding the snake-girl's arm. "I want to show you something," Nicole said.

Amy grinned at Charlie, and patted his arm. "I'll be right back," she said. She took off with the trio of girls, and Charlie slid into the seat of the armchair, sipping his beer. He couldn't think over the music and the people talking. He finished his beer. He waited. Amy didn't come back.

After awhile, he stood. The room swam before him, and he realized that he'd managed to cross from kind-of drunk to really drunk, just like Mark wanted. Where was Mark? He stumbled forward. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was standing in the middle of the kitchen. The girls in animal skins still stood by the counter, though now their arms were linked, and they swayed together in some sort of drunken dance. Charlie gripped the wall for balance, wondering how he'd made it into the kitchen.

Turning around, he wandered back into the living room. People lounged on the chairs and sofas, laughing and talking in groups, but he didn't see Mark or Amy. His eyes fastened on the living room door, and he stumbled forward. Opening it, he stepped out and into the cold night air.

He could breathe easier out here. For a few minutes, he simply stood, drawing in deep breaths of the autumn air. After awhile, his eyes fastened on the tall buildings of campus in the distance. Smiling, Charlie started towards home.

* * *

Somehow, Charlie managed to find his keys and stumble into his dorm room. He closed the door to his room behind him gratefully. The latest letter from Wonka sat on his desk where he had left it. Charlie reached for it with a shaking hand. By the time he'd finished rereading it, a lump had formed in his throat. He swallowed, lay the letter aside, and fumbled in his desk for a sheet of stationary. Finding a pen, he chewed on it for a second and wrote:

_Dear Mr. Wonka,_

But that was wrong. He couldn't hold the pen steady and the letters swam beneath his eyes. Crumpling that sheet, he reached for another one, and tried again, with the same result.

"Damn," he whispered, and spying the phone, rose unsteadily to his feet. A few stumbling steps brought him within reach of it, and he picked up the receiver, only dropping it once as he lifted it to his ear.

It took him twice to get the number right. The international operator was confusing. Charlie closed his eyes as the phone started to ring.

Only he and a handful of Oompa-Loompas knew Wonka's private phone number. Even his parents didn't know it. The phone began to ring, and Charlie held his breath, knowing that Wonka might have disconnected the phone. He might have even forgotten that he had a phone to begin with -- Charlie had been to Wonka's bedroom a few times, and he could easily imagine a phone getting lost in all of the throw pillows and tapestries.

The phone rang and rang. Eight times, nine times, ten. Just as Charlie had decided to give up, a heartbreakingly familiar voice answered.

"Hello?" Wonka sounded sleepy, but not upset. That was a good sign.

"Hi," Charlie said. "It's me," he added, unnecessarily. Who else would be calling Wonka at this time of night? Who else would be calling Wonka at all?

"Charlie!" Wonka said. His voice sounded high and nervous. "What a surprise."

Charlie closed his eyes, picturing Wonka as he must look now, cradling the phone to his ear and biting his lower lip. A familiar ache welled up in Charlie's chest, and without thinking about it, Charlie blurted, "I miss you."

Silence. Charlie closed his eyes. He was making a fool of himself. "I'm sorry," he said, only slurring the words a little. "I shouldn't have called. I know it's late."

"Charlie," Wonka interrupted, "you can call me whenever you'd like."

Charlie squeezed the phone close. "I . . . I got your letters," he said. "All your letters. I'm sorry I didn't write you back. I was mad."

"It's okay," Wonka said.

"It's just . . . I just . . ." Charlie closed his eyes. He couldn't make his brain focus on his words. "I miss you _so_ much," he murmured.

A moment of hesitation. And then Wonka asked suspiciously, "Charlie, are you drunk?"

"Um, yeah," Charlie said. "A little."

He held his breath, waiting for a lecture. But to his surprise, Wonka just chuckled.

"My dear boy," he said fondly. "Whatever would your mother say?"

"You won't tell her, will you?"

"Of course not," Wonka said. Charlie could almost hear his smile in his voice. For a moment, it felt like he were back at the factory, sharing yet another secret with Willy Wonka.

"I talked to Mum the other day," Charlie said.

"Oh?" Wonka asked.

"She's worried about you," Charlie said. "So am I. Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry Charlie," said Wonka. "The phone call is breaking up. You'll have to speak a little louder."

Charlie closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the wall. He hated it when Wonka did that. "Just be careful with yourself," he said. "I want you to be happy."

"I am now," Wonka said softly.

Charlie bit his lip. "I . . . um . . . I called for a reason," Charlie said. "Not just to talk to you, I mean."

"Oh?"

Charlie swallowed. "My friends and I were talking about the Christmas today," he said. "Almost everyone I know is going home. And I know you said that I couldn't come back for a year, but you wanted me to have a normal college experience, and going back for the holidays is normal. And I miss you. And I miss my parents, of course. And I could probably help you with the end-of-the-year paperwork. I know how much you hate it. I want to come home," he said. "Please let me come home for Christmas."

His heart pounded in his throat during the brief pause that followed. Finally Wonka said, "My dear boy. Of course you can."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a million thanks go out to my two talented betas, Reibish and Trilliah. I've taken most of your suggestions, ladies, and for the ones I didn't . . . well, I guess you can say, "I told you so." As always, any remaining mistakes are my own.

"There you are!"

Charlie turned around unsteadily, still holding the phone, to find Mark and Amy in the doorway of his room. Mark looked frantic, and tears streamed down Amy's face.

"We were so worried about you!" Amy cried. "Why did you leave without telling us?"

Charlie shook his head, as if to clear it. "I couldn't find you," he said.

"We were in the backyard," Mark said. "I'm sorry. We shouldn't have left you."

"The cops came not long after you left," Amy said, plopping onto Charlie's bed and hugging herself. "We managed to make it out, but we couldn't find you. We were so worried. Then Nicole said that she thought she saw you leave."

"We weren't sure you could make it back here by yourself," Mark said, sitting beside Amy and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"I'm not a baby," Charlie said, bristling.

Mark lifted his hand. "I never said you were. But you're pretty smashed. Who knows what could have happened. Next time, if you want to leave, tell us. We'll come with you."

"I didn't want to spoil your fun," Charlie said.

Amy rolled her eyes. "You're our friend, Charlie. If you're not having fun, we'll leave."

Charlie sighed, and sat on the bed beside them. "I don't feel good," he said.

"Make sure you drink a lot of water," Mark said. "Otherwise, you'll have a hangover in the morning for sure."

Charlie shook his head. "I was such an idiot tonight," he said.

"For wandering off?" Mark said. "Damn right you are."

"No," Charlie said. "After . . ."

"What happened?" Amy asked him.

He smiled ruefully. "I called Mr. Wonka."

* * *

In the factory, thousands of miles away, Willy Wonka carefully set down the phone, startled to find that his hand was shaking. His own voice still echoed in his head.

_Of course you can._

He hadn't meant to say that.

Charlie had caught him off guard with the question, caught him off guard, in fact, with the very phone call. Wonka had hoped the boy would forgive him, had gambled both their futures and the future of the factory on it, in fact, but he knew too well the stubborn streak that hid beneath Charlie's good-natured politeness. He hadn't expected to hear from the boy for another few months, if at all. He certainly hadn't expected Charlie to ask to come home for the holidays. But then, Wonka reflected, drawing his knees up to his chest and leaning back against the piled pillows on his bed, Charlie always did had a knack for surprising him. The boy had been catching him off guard since the day they met.

As his Golden Tickets began to turn up, Wonka had watched each interview with a sinking feeling in his stomach, which only increased as the Oompa-Loompas brought him all of the information they'd been able to turn up about the ticket finders. He shuddered to think of one of those brats inheriting his factory, becoming the next Willy Wonka. Inconceivable. He would never allow it.

His Oompa-Loompas tried to comfort him. This was his third grey hair, they'd reminded him -- he'd dealt with the the first two swiftly using mild doses of Wonka-Vite. Long-lived by genetic disposition (his grandfather, Walter Wonka, had lived to the ripe old age of one-hundred-and-seventeen, and from all reports, his father still looked hardly a day over sixty), Willy Wonka could very well have achieved immortality. Time was largely a human construction. Having removed himself from human society, having become (he sometimes suspected) something more -- or maybe less -- than human, Wonka had no reason to worry about the effects of time on his body.

But accidents happened. Wonka believed in fate, in luck, in happenstance and changed fortunes. He liked to think himself a very lucky man, trusted to that luck, in fact, every time he stepped on board the Great Glass Elevator and hoped that it wouldn't collide with its double, which the Oompa-Loompas used for factory business. Perhaps he'd been born with that luck, or maybe he'd called luck to him as a child, grasping for it desperately as he stared at the gaping hole where his house used to stand. Either way, Wonka had learned to depend on luck over the years, to gamble with it, even to crudely calculate its swells and eddies. Forget Apollo and his careful, brutal mask of civility. Forget Dionysus, the drunkard. Willy Wonka followed Hermes, the trickster god, who'd invented the lyre, perfected the outrageous lie, and who could travel in and out of hell, unscathed. If Hermes could scheme his way from his mother's cave and into Olympus through a delightful invention and a bit of well-turned trickery, then surely he could guide Wonka as he worked to turn his dreams into reality. And he had. Like Hermes, Wonka had reshaped his own reality. He'd sculpted a new world out of cleverness and chocolate, leaving behind the old one with its many betrayals.

But count no man happy until he's dead, Wonka had read, in one of the many books his father had given him. Fate is a wheel, and a man at the top of the world (even his own world) can never know when the wheel may turn, sending him and everything he'd worked for tumbling down. In the barber's chair, studying that single silver hair agleam in the lamplight, Willy Wonka had decided, then and there, to outwit fate as well as time. A man at the top of the wheel seemed almost destined to fall down, but one at the bottom could only go up. Wonka would find such a person, thereby supplementing his own luck with another's. He would send out five Golden Tickets, bring five children into his factory, and throw in his lot with whichever seemed the most lucky.

It had to be a child, he knew. Only a child's brain could possibly stretch far enough to learn everything he had to teach. Only a child would be able to follow in his footsteps, to become, to all intents and purposes, a duplicate version of himself. He would teach one child his secrets, and thus he would scatter the targets should fate ever decide to cast its aim on Willy Wonka.

Count no man happy until he's dead. Willy Wonka might not be happy (he sometimes suspected that he'd surrendered his chance for happiness just as he'd gladly relinquished his capacity for despair, when he'd stepped away from the world and all of its troubles in favor of his factory, where loneliness was guaranteed, but freedom absolute), but he wasn't dead, not yet, and he would do his best to guarantee that his factory and his beloved Oompa-Loompas could escape whatever slings and arrows Fortune had in store for him. So he sent his tickets out into the world, hoping that Hermes would guide him just once more. But as the tickets got snatched by one greedy child after another, Wonka started to wonder if Fate had gotten the upper hand after all. Four tickets found, with no suitable candidates, and to add insult to injury, Wonka's own words now obligated him to show the brats around the factory for a day, risking his secrets and violating his cherished privacy. He took some small comfort in planning their downfalls.

And then, the day before the factory tour, news of the alleged Russian ticket trickled into his office. Wonka debunked that rumor at once: he'd trusted to fate for the distribution of the tickets, but he'd seen no reason why he should sit and wonder with the rest of the world. Each golden ticket contained a tiny computer chip embedded in its watermark, and Wonka's infallible intelligence network knew that the fifth golden ticket waited, not in Russia, but in Wonka's own adopted town, the sight of his first shop and his beloved factory. An enormous coincidence, and one that Wonka hadn't planned, but an encouraging sign, he hoped. He'd sent an anonymous tip to the papers, and hours later, news of the forgery had spread. Yet the hours stretched closer and closer to February first, and still no sign of a fifth ticket holder. He'd just begun to abandon hope when the Oompa-Loompas reported that the final ticket had finally been found, by a boy whose family hadn't bothered to alert the press. Charlie Bucket. Hearing his name, Wonka had felt a small flicker of hope surge in his chest, that didn't bloom into an outright flame until he'd looked through his security cameras and seen the scrawny boy waiting patiently outside the factory gates with his grandfather. If ever a child was at the bottom of the wheel, it was that one.

_"You're just lucky to be here, aren't you?"_ he'd sneered, wondering if Charlie could ever come to understand how very lucky they both were.

But Charlie had surprised him then, for the first of many times, choosing a dull life at the bottom of the wheel _with_ his family over a quick trip to the top of it without them. As his elevator lifted through the jagged roof of the Bucket shack, leaving the boy and his family behind, Wonka had felt a shard of pain rip through him for the first time in fifteen years. Somewhere, he thought, the Fates really were laughing.

And yet . . . despite his anger at the boy, despite his utter bafflement that anyone would turn down a chocolate factory for something as piddly as a family, Wonka still felt, to the deepest reaches of his soul, that somehow, Hermes had proved right by him once again. Charlie _was_ supposed to be his heir. He felt it to the marrow of his bones. Already, Charlie had shown signs of knowing the strange ways Wonka's brain could run. If anybody could learn to run this factory, if anyone could learn to think like Willy Wonka, he felt sure it would have to be Charlie Bucket. For the first time since he'd locked himself away in the factory, Wonka found himself hating the walls of loneliness he'd erected around himself.

That loneliness, combined with his unfailing obstinance, sent Wonka out of the factory for the first time in years in search of the boy, whom he'd learned worked a shoe-shining booth outside of Greystone Cafe, downtown. In the end, Wonka decided that bringing the boy's family to the factory really was a small concession to make.

But maybe somewhere the three Fates sat chuckling at his expense after all.

A few months after Charlie moved into the factory, Wonka's initial nervousness around the boy gave way to a dizzying disbelieving joy. Charlie liked him. Charlie looked up to him. Charlie wanted to be his friend. Despite the difference in their ages, despite even their vastly different personalities, they managed to form a tentative friendship, bound by their shared love of Wonka's world. Over the years, that friendship had grown and deepened, until one day, working in the inventing room with Charlie, watching the boy's (now a teenager's) face light up after a successful experiment, Wonka had felt a sudden rush of something that couldn't possibly be friendship.

Desire he could have handled. Wonka had learned long ago how to control his body's appetites; if he hadn't, he would have been larger than Augustus Gloop. He liked to see himself as something of a monk, channeling his earthly desires into his candy. But what he felt for Charlie went beyond desire -- somehow, Wonka had fallen in love with the boy.

Once realized, the emotion threatened to overwhelm him. He lived for the sound of Charlie's voice (why hadn't he noticed how utterly charming it was?) and Charlie's eyes suddenly captivated him. The volatile and sometimes downright magical ingredients in Wonka's candy had affected Charlie as they had Wonka himself. The boy's eyes, once blue, now sparkled and shifted in a hundred different shades. They lingered towards the cooler colors in the spectrum, the greens and blues, the cloudy greys, while Wonka's own eyes tended towards darker blue and violet, sometimes deepening to chocolate brown, but even that seemed proof of their balancing effect on each other -- Wonka sparked Charlie's quiet thoughtfulness to life, and Charlie gently calmed Wonka's moments of shining madness. Wonka courted the shifting colors in those eyes, getting the same guilty thrill from a rare gleam of topaz that he felt whenever Charlie took his arm or leaned close to whisper a secret in his ear. In bed at night, he'd stroke himself to the memory of those eyes, of a flash of dimpled smile, until he fell limp with relief and guilt.

He could have maneuvered the boy into his bed. Charlie still maintained a healthy streak of hero worship for him, and sometimes, catching those spectacular eyes lingering on him, Wonka wondered whether Charlie might share his desire, or at least be curious. But Wonka didn't want a series of hasty fumblings that they'd both be sure to regret in the morning, didn't want to see those eyes go charcoal grey when Charlie finally realized he'd been manipulated. Most of all, he didn't want to drive Charlie away from the factory. Charlie had rejected him once already. He couldn't bear to have it happen again, not now, when Charlie meant so much more to him than a trick for fate.

So Wonka resigned himself to an eternity of desperate hopeless _wanting_, although imagining years and years of this bitter torture sometimes made him want to cry. Bringing Charlie into the factory had reawakened the emotions Wonka thought long dead -- loneliness, happiness, love . . . and now despair.

In a way, he'd felt relieved when Mrs. Bucket finally confronted him. At least with Charlie gone, the guilt didn't seem quite so terrible -- easier to yearn for Charlie over the distance than to yearn for Charlie over breakfast in the morning. At least this way Wonka didn't need to hide his misery. And now it seemed that Charlie had finally managed to forgive him. Closing his eyes, Wonka replayed their conversation in his mind, just basking, for a few minutes, in the remembered sound of Charlie's voice.

"I miss you," he whispered aloud, doing his best to match Charlie's accent and the faint slurring of his words. It was a good imitation -- Wonka had a knack for mimicry -- but it failed to warm him the way that hearing the real thing had.

_He misses me,_ Wonka thought. He smiled to think that it had taken alcohol to make the boy call him. Heartening, too, to hear that Charlie had started drinking. Wonka treasured innocence, even his own, carefully preserved over the years, despite the odds, but he wondered sometimes whether Charlie was too well-behaved for his own good. Wonka himself hadn't become the world's most famous chocolatier by playing by the rules, even by his own rules. His own rules stated, very clearly, that Charlie should stay away for a year, Christmas holiday or no. But hearing the boy's voice on the phone, the more rebellious side of him -- the side that had taken up chocolate-making despite his father's orders -- had taken control, speaking before Wonka had time to stop it.

_Of course you can._

Wonka smiled, giddy with relief over his own small act of rebellion against himself. Charlie was coming home.

* * *

After Halloween, the quarter flew by like mad. Charlie's midterms came, and for the first time, he found himself struggling to keep up with his classes. He'd always been able to manage a heavy workload -- Wonka certainly kept him busy at the factory -- but at the same time, his life at the factory had been geared around that load, his life carefully scheduled to arrange for optimum times of creativity. At college, he had to squeeze his schoolwork in between laughing with his friends and his rarely-managed snatches of sleep. Only his private tutoring with Wonka managed to keep him afloat in college; however unconventional Wonka's genius might be, his lessons had given Charlie a wealth of background knowledge that proved handy in many small and surprising ways. In fact, Charlie suspected that he would be enjoying his coursework, if only the professors didn't pile it on all at once.

One day, near the height of midterm madness, Charlie came home to find Isabelle studying in the living room.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sitting beside her on the sofa.

She looked up from her books, and it seemed to take a moment for her eyes to focus. "English final," she said. "For my Renaissance drama class. I'll have to be able to match quotations up with the playwright."

Charlie shook his head wryly as he read her study guide over her shoulder. Seeing all of those half-familiar names remembered from his lessons with Wonka, and noting the frazzled look in her eyes, he thought for a second, grinned at her, and said:

"Away back in the Renaissance, those gloried poets of yore  
Shakespeare, Jonson, Marlowe, Greene, and many many more  
With nibbled quills and ink-stained hands, they worked away their days  
To write those things you study now: their ancient, famous plays!  
They wrote for wealth, they wrote for fame, they wrote for many things  
But overall, they wrote for what the crowded theatre brings.  
The adoration of the crowd, the actor's brilliant skill  
To watch their dramas come to life did give them such a thrill  
They never thought their plays would come to live only in tomes  
Or bring such woe to college girls, who read them thus, and moan  
So if you care for those dead men, please do this thing I pray --  
Go to a theatre, my dear, and never read a play!"

She laughed as he finished with flourished bow. "Shel Silverstein?" she asked, still giggling.

Charlie blushed. "No," he admitted. "I just made it up."

Her laughter died and she leaned forward. "You _just_ made it up?"

He shrugged, now regretting his impulsive mood. Improvised poetry was an important skill at the factory. It brought respect from the Oompa-Loompas, and made Wonka's eyes twinkle. He'd forgotten that it was less common in the real world.

"Improvisation is a parlor trick," he mumbled, blushing. "Anyone can do it." She still looked dubious, so he shrugged. "Say something. Anything."

"Final's week," she said.

"Final's week is dark and bleak as for the proper marks you seek," he said at once. She blinked, and he smiled weakly. "It's not my best effort," he said, "but you get the idea. The trick is to get really good at coming up with rhyming words. Once you do, you can string together nonsense poetry at the drop of a hat.

Isabelle snorted. "Maybe _you_ can," she said. "For the rest of us, it takes a little more work."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my long-suffering betas, Trilliah and Reibish, who were both kind enough to look over this chapter for me at the last minute. Of course, I decided to wake early this morning and completely re-write it, probably undoing most of their hard work in the process, but that's my own damned fault. As always, any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Thanks also to all of you who've taken the time to read and review my previous chapters. Without all of your support, I probably would have given up on this story ages ago.

One November afternoon, the near-constant drizzle of rain that seemed to mark the coming winter in western Washington finally let up enough to allow Charlie and his suitemates to study outside, despite the chill in the air. They sat on the dock-like wooden slabs behind the Performing Arts Center, studying for their finals while listening to the wash of the wind and the gentle hum of traffic on the road below. Huddling into his jacket, Charlie tried to make himself concentrate on the "Hymn to Demeter" for his Greek Mythology final. He couldn't quite find his focus. The movement of the wind through the trees distracted him, as did the distant bay, glimmering in the cold autumn sunlight.

It seemed his suitemates, too, were finding it difficult to concentrate. After a while, Amy gave up on her book entirely and rolled onto her stomach, watching a fishing boat glide across the bay. "We should do something for Thanksgiving," Amy said.

Isabelle glanced up from her notebook at once, as if she'd only been waiting for an excuse to break her concentration. "What do you want to do?"

Amy shrugged. "I don't know. Dinner maybe. We could cook something. It'd be a nice change from eating out all the time."

"I don't know," Mark said, setting down his anthropology textbook and glancing up at them from the slab below. "I'm not all that cool with Thanksgiving. It's practically a celebration of Colonialism."

"It doesn't have to be," Amy said. "We wouldn't have to do any of that pilgrim stuff. We could just make dinner and say what we're thankful for."

"As long as it's not religious," John said, and Mark nodded his agreement. Amy shrugged.

"We could do whatever we wanted," she said.

Mark shrugged in acquiescence. Isabelle glanced at Charlie.

"What do you think?" she asked.

Charlie shrugged, using his finger to mark his place in the _Homeric Hymns_. "I'm not sure," he said. "I've never celebrated Thanksgiving."

They all stared at him for a second, and then Amy smacked her own forehead. "That's right," she said. "You don't have it in England, do you?"

Charlie shook his head.

John grinned. "Well, we almost have to do it now," he said.

"Do you know anything about Thanksgiving?" Mark asked Charlie.

"Just what I've seen on TV," Charlie said. "I know there's a turkey involved."

Mark and Isabelle glanced at each other. "Well, there wouldn't be in ours," Mark said. "Not unless we want to do tofurkey."

"Yuck," Amy said.

Isabelle nodded her agreement. "Let's just stick with good vegetarian dishes," she said. "No fake meat. I know how to make a good vegetable pot pie. Our Thanksgiving doesn't have to be traditional."

"Is anything we do traditional?" John asked.

Charlie grinned. "I could make dessert," he volunteered.

The other suitemates quickly nodded their agreement. Charlie tended to make candy when stressed -- it was a habit he'd learned from Wonka -- and his suitemates had come to appreciate his test dates and project deadlines if only for the array of delectables they brought them, though Amy and Isabelle sometimes complained that he was doing more to contribute to their freshman fifteen than cafeteria food, pizza and beer put together.

"I guess it's settled then," Amy said, sitting up again and reluctantly reaching for his textbook.

Charlie nodded, glancing back towards the page he'd marked with his finger.

> So the goddess nursed in the palace Demophoon, wise Celeus' goodly son whom well-girded Metaneira bare. And the child grew like some immortal being, not fed with food nor nourished at the breast: for by day rich-crowned Demeter would anoint him with ambrosia as if he were the offspring of a god and breathe sweetly upon him as she held him in her bosom. But at night she would hide him like a brand in the heard of the fire, unknown to his dear parents. And it wrought great wonder in these that he grew beyond his age; for he was like the gods face to face. And she would have made him deathless and unageing, had not well-girded Metaneira in her heedlessness kept watch by night from her sweet-smelling chamber and spied. But she wailed and smote her two hips, because she feared for her son and was greatly distraught in her heart . . . 

* * *

They decided to hold their Thanksgiving celebration on the Tuesday before the holiday itself -- although classes would technically be in session on Wednesday, Charlie's suitemates, like most of the students they knew, were planning to skip them to go home.

That Wednesday, they found themselves dancing around each other in the kitchen as Isabelle's vegetable pie preparations vied for space with Charlie's candy making and Amy's salad preparation. Isabelle had commandeered John for the project, and was giving him swift instructions on peeling vegetables and chopping them just so, while Charlie listened on, curiously. For all he'd learned about candy making during his long apprenticeship at the factory, he'd never tried real cooking before. Of all the suitemates, only Mark had managed to escape the kitchen. He'd gone to get wine with his cousin, who was the only person they knew who was old enough to buy alcohol.

"Can you pass me the sugar?" Charlie asked Isabelle, and she nodded distractedly, reaching for the canister. But as her fingers closed around it, she suddenly let out an earsplitting scream.

"What is it?" Charlie asked, instinctively searching the room for the nearest Oompa-Loompa before he could remind himself that there were none, of course, in his dorm kitchen. During the apprenticeship with Wonka, he'd learned to get medical help at the first sign of trouble.

But Isabelle only gave a shaky laugh, and lifted up the fake spider, which had been sitting on the handle of the sugar canister. "You think I'd be used to this thing by now," she said, pocketing the spider and handing the canister to Charlie.

He smiled, relieved, and focused himself on his project. He'd wanted to make something truly spectacular for the occasion -- maybe a chocolate turkey filled with raspberry jelly that evaporated against the tongue -- but without the equipment in the factory, such culinary magic was beyond him. Instead, he'd settled on a chocolate torte.

That evening, they all settled themselves around the kitchen table for the first time all year. Amy lit some candles, which flickered in the dim light, adding an almost elegant air to the table, despite the plastic dishes and the dollar store silverware.

"Should we each say what we're thankful for?" Isabelle asked, and the rest of them nodded their agreement.

"Why don't you start?" Mark said to her.

She shrugged. "All right. I'm thankful for all of you guys, and for my parents, and for Zach. And I'm thankful that John didn't cut himself chopping the carrots."

"Hey!" John protested. "I'm not that bad in the kitchen."

"Besides, blood adds protein," Charlie pointed out. Isabelle looked faintly disgusted, but the rest of his suitemates laughed.

"Who's next?" Isabelle said, looking desperate to change the topic away from bloody carrots.

"I'll go," John said. "We can just go around the table." Clearing his throat dramatically, he announced, I'm grateful for the force of gravity, which keeps us all here, instead of floating off to Jupiter or wherever."

Charlie, who'd experienced Zero-G for himself, only smirked while the rest of the group laughed. He'd been rather fond of floating, although he'd never quite managed to propel himself through the air quite as efficiently as Wonka did.

Mark said, "I'm thankful we can all be here, doing something like a family."

"Amen," Amy said, and Isabelle nodded her agreement. They glanced expectantly at Charlie, who was next in order.

He swallowed. "You all know how hard it was for me when I first came to Fuller College," he said. "During my first few weeks here, I think I would have given anything in the world to go back home. But now that I've gotten to know all of you, and know what good friends you are, I can't imagine not having you all in my life. I still don't know why Mr. Wonka made me leave, but in a way, I'm kind of glad he did. I'm thankful that I've gotten the chance to meet you. I'm thankful just to be here."

Amy, who was sitting next to him, gave Charlie a quick hug, and Isabelle squeezed his hand from across the table.

"I'm so happy for you," she whispered.

Mark beamed at Charlie. "We're glad you're here too," he said.

There was a round of slightly embarrassed smiling, and then Amy straightened in her seat. "Well I, for one, am thankful that we're eating real food today, and not that crap they try to feed us in the cafeteria," she said.

They all applauded, and Mark lifted his glass in a toast. "Happy Thanksgiving," he said, and they all lifted their glasses to him.

"Happy Thanksgiving," they echoed.

The next day, Charlie's suitemates all left to visit their families, and he had the suite to himself. Mark and Amy had both offered to bring him home with them, but he'd declined. Although he felt comfortable around his suitemates now, being around new people still made him kind of nervous. Besides, as much he hated to admit it, even to himself, Charlie looked forward to being alone for awhile. He'd always needed a certain amount of alone-time to focus his thoughts -- as a child, he'd spent countless hours alone in his bedroom, drawing his crayoned pictures of the factory and losing himself in his own fiercely guarded dreams, which were all the more precious to him because they hadn't a chance of coming true . . . or at least, they shouldn't have had a chance. Willy Wonka had brought Charlie's dreams to life just as deftly as he had his own.

Sitting by himself in the living room, with his sketchbook balanced on his knees (he'd been drawing the peppermint trees in the chocolate room from memory), Charlie allowed himself to think of Wonka.

The chocolatier shared Charlie's need for personal time -- during Charlie's first few years at the factory, Wonka had guarded his solitude fiercely, doing his best to maintain an invisible set of walls around himself and the Bucket family, as if the maze-like corridors leading down to the perpetually-locked doors of his personal rooms didn't provide quite enough protection. But as he'd come to know his heir, and realized that Charlie respected and shared his need to occasionally lose himself in his own ideas, Wonka had gradually allowed Charlie to get close enough to glimpse the world inside his mind. Charlie learned to treasure those rare glimpses into Wonka's dreams, those soft, almost hesitant, secrets whispered while they lounged together on the swudge on the river bank, or swung on the playground set Wonka had installed in the chocolate room after Charlie's arrival. He, in turn, had tentatively begun to share his own dreams, closely guarded since childhood. They never seemed as fantastic or elaborate as Wonka's, but the chocolatier never seemed to mind. They'd learned that they could be alone together, that they needn't guard against each other as they each guarded against the outside world. Of everything he'd loved back at the factory, Charlie missed those quiet times with Wonka the most.

* * *

The quarter passed swiftly. A few weeks before final's week, a letter came in the mail from Wonka, containing a round-trip airplane ticket. In his earlier letters, he'd offered to come and get Charlie in the elevator, but each time, Charlie refused. He knew the older man meant the gesture as a form of apology -- Wonka still hated to leave the factory, and generally only did so for Charlie's sake -- but though he'd come to appreciate being at college, Charlie still couldn't quite manage to forgive Wonka for sending him away. He wasn't sure what they'd manage to say to each other in the long elevator ride across the Atlantic -- it was hard enough answering Wonka's letters. Charlie had started replying to them after his drunken phone call home on Halloween, but writing to Wonka took an amazing amount of effort. Mostly, Charlie just wrote about his friends, and about his ideas for new candies. Wonka always commented on the candy ideas, but he ignored any and all mention of Charlie's new life outside the factory.

The day before he was scheduled to fly home, Charlie woke up to see snowflakes falling outside his bedroom window. Throwing himself out of bed, he rushed into the living room, where Mark was pouring coffee in his pajamas and Isabelle was eating the breakfast cereal she refused to give up, no matter how many times Charlie insisted it was made of pencil shavings.

"It's snowing!" Charlie cried.

His suitemates glanced up at him, and then turned, as one, towards the window.

"Oh wow," Isabelle breathed.

Amy poked her head out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes sleepily. "Did you say it's snowing?"

In response, Charlie pointed to the window. Amy grinned. "Yes!"

They pulled John out of bed, and still in their pajamas, ran outside to find a thin layer of snow coating the campus. All around them, other students were emerging from Walden Hall, staring up into the sky. Charlie knelt and scooped up a handful of snow, ignoring the cold biting into his hand.

"I used to hate snow," he said softly.

"How can you hate snow?" Amy asked. She was spinning around in circles, holding up her hands to the sky.

"My family was very poor growing up," Charlie explained. "It was hard to keep warm in the winter." Isabelle was giving him a pitying look, so he quickly changed the subject. "We got a lot more of it there, though," he said. "It hardly even seems like winter here. Everything's so green."

"That's the Pacific Northwest," Mark said. "Lots of rain. No snow."

"It's because we're so close to the bay," John said.

Charlie opened his mouth to respond, but a snowball hit him firmly in the side of the head. He turned to see Amy grinning at him, wearing an innocent expression that didn't fool him in the slightest.

"Oh you," he said, and launched the melting snow in his hand at her.

She squealed and dashed out of the way, but Mark managed to pelt her in the face with a well-aimed snowball. That was all it took for a full-scale snowball fight to begin. Twenty minutes later, they staggered back into Walden Hall, soaked through and half-frozen.

"That was fun," Charlie gasped, laughing. "We need to do it again!"

Mark started to reply, but the ringing of a telephone in Charlie's room interrupted him. Shrugging apologetically, Charlie went into his bedroom to answer the phone.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver.

"Hi, Charlie," Wonka said.

Charlie's knees gave out, and he caught the frame of the bed for support. "Mr. Wonka!" he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Is everything okay?"

They hadn't spoken on the phone since Charlie's drunken call home on Halloween. Wonka hated telephones, and Charlie couldn't quite work up the nerve to call him again. It was mortifying enough that he'd done so already, especially while drunk.

"Everything's just peachy," Wonka said, punctuating the sentence with a high giggle that sounded a bit more forced than usual. "I wanted to make sure you got your ticket."

Charlie rolled his eyes. Wonka knew perfectly well that he had. "I did," said Charlie. "Thank you."

"Then everything's still on?" said Wonka. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," said Charlie, biting his lip. "I'll see you then."

"Are you sure you don't want me to get you?" Wonka asked. "You know how terrible planes are. All that noise. All those people."

"That's all right," Charlie said. "It's such a long journey. And it's been so long since you've taken the elevator over the Atlantic. Besides, you'd have to stand the whole way."

"I wouldn't have to," Wonka said, sounding shy over the phone. "I could push your grandparents' old bed inside again."

Charlie bit his lip at the sudden thought of spending several hours on a bed with Willy Wonka. _Don't go there,_ he told his brain. _Don't even think it._

Misinterpreting the cause of Charlie's sudden silence, Wonka hurried to say, "It wouldn't have to be their bed! Any old bed would do. Or a couple of armchairs. Or --"

"You needn't bother," Charlie said, managing to find his voice again. "Really. I don't mind taking the plane. And I know that you'll have important things to do."

Silence. Charlie hoped that Wonka would protest that nothing was more important than bringing Charlie home again. But Wonka didn't. Instead he said, in a slightly hollow voice, "Well, if you're sure then . . ."

"I am," Charlie said.

"Oh," said Wonka. "Okay then." And he fell silent.

Charlie closed his eyes. "I . . . I'll be glad to see you," he whispered, the closest thing to an apology that he could muster.

A moment of silence. "It will be nice to have you home," Wonka said, as though the words hurt him. He cleared his throat over the phone, and in a much more cheerful voice said, "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow," Charlie echoed.

And Wonka hung up the phone.

Charlie sighed, setting down the receiver. Through the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement in the doorway, and he turned to see Isabelle watching him.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, sinking onto the bed. "It's just . . . that was Mr. Wonka."

"Is everything all right?" she asked, venturing into the room.

"I don't know," Charlie admitted, leaning his face into his hand. "I honestly don't know. It's like we just can't talk anymore."

"Were you close?" Isabelle asked, sitting on the bed beside him. "You never talk about him."

Charlie nodded, trying to work out in words exactly what Wonka meant to him. "He was my best friend," he said at last. "It sounds weird, I know. He's a lot older than me. And he's brilliant. He really is a genius. But . . . it's like we completed each other somehow. I always felt like I could tell him anything, that he'd do anything he could to help me."

"And now?" Isabelle asked.

He sighed, hugging himself. "I don't know. He's never told me why he made me leave the factory. I'm not sure that I trust him anymore. And like I said, it's just so awkward when we try to talk. I'm still a little bit mad at him, and I said some things before I left. I'm not sure if he's forgiven me."

Isabelle studied him carefully. "Are you nervous about going home?"

"I'm terrified," he admitted.

She wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "It'll be okay," she said. "You guys probably need to talk." Charlie nodded, painfully, and she grinned at him. "Besides," she said, "if things get too bad, just remember that you'll be coming back here in a month. _We_ love you, you know."

"Thanks," Charlie mumbled, blushing. She patted his shoulder, and stood.

"I need to finish packing," she said. "But let me know if you need to talk."

"I will," Charlie promised.

She turned and left, and he fell back against the bed, studying the picture of Wonka on his wall. For the first time since he'd asked to come home for the holidays, Charlie almost wished that he were staying on campus.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my magnificent betas, and , who consistantly go above and beyond the call of beta-dom by putting up with my procrastination every week. Thanks also to , for listening to me whine and bitch about this chapter.

On the morning that Charlie was scheduled to fly home, Willy Wonka shut himself into the inventing room, throwing himself into his projects with such single-minded dedication that he could almost manage to convince himself that nothing existed save for these four walls and the careful chemical balance of his latest creation.

Almost.

At half past twelve, just as he'd expected, Wonka felt a tug on his pants leg, and glanced down to see an Oompa-Loompa looking up at him, his red vinyl jumpsuit a bright contrast amidst the black uniforms of the inventing room staff. He'd come from the chocolate room.

Wonka swallowed, setting the beaker he'd been holding back onto the table with careful precision. The bright green liquid it contained had been squeezed from the spleen of a snozzwhanger, and snozzwhanger spleens were notoriously hard to get. It wouldn't do to spill or break it, and from the sudden clenching feeling in Wonka's gut, he thought that a spill or break might be imminent.

"Yeah?" he said to the Oompa-Loompa, trying his best to sound casual. If the expression on the Oompa-Loompa's face meant anything, he hadn't done a good job.

"They're leaving for the airport, boss," the Oompa-Loompa said, his fingers moving carefully through the words. "They want to know if you're coming with them."

Wonka swallowed. He'd known that this moment was coming, of course. He'd been alternately dreading and anticipating it all day. But now that it was here, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to climb back in bed and pretend that it wasn't happening. In his mind, he could already picture the awkward trip to the airport with the Buckets, Mrs. Bucket eyeing him nervously through the rearview mirror, Mr. Bucket trying to keep up a stream of nervous chatter. They would go to the airport, and there would be crowds, too many nosy people, all of them with nothing better to do than gawk at him, and then the plane would land, and out would come Charlie, and then -- Wonka couldn't bring himself to contemplate what might happen next. He couldn't quite handle the thought of seeing Charlie.

The Oompa-Loompa still looked up at him, waiting for an answer, and Wonka swallowed, shaking his head. "No," he said. "I -- no."

The Oompa-Loompa nodded. His face remained as stoic as ever, but Wonka thought he saw a touch of disappointment in his eyes. The Oompa-Loompa crossed his arms over his chest and bowed, confirmation of the message, but Wonka just smiled weakly and waved in return, unable to manage the proper response. When he turned back to his work table, reaching shakily for the flask of green liquid, Wonka realized that all of the workers in the inventing room had ceased their tasks and were watching him with concerned expressions on their faces.

"Carry on!" he managed, with some of his usual enthusiasm.

Glancing dubiously at one another and at him, they slowly fell back to work, although the worried glances his way only seemed to increase in frequency. Still gripping the flask of snozzwhanger spleen juice, Wonka turned back towards the pot of melted chocolate he'd been working on. Biting his lip with exaggerated concentration, he tilted the flask over the pot, slowly pouring a stream of bright green liquid into the chocolate. When the last drop fell into the chocolate, he set the flask to one side and began slowly to count to ten.

The explosion at eight-and-a-half knocked him off his feet and sent him flying across the room.

His head hit the wall with a sickening thud, and he slid to the floor in a crumpled heap. He lie perfectly still for a second as the aftershocks shuddered through him. Already, he felt sick to his stomach. The medical alert klaxon began to sound, a high, whining sound that made him grit his teeth and clasp his head even harder. When he finally managed to open his eyes, the noise had stopped, and a team of Oompa-Loompa medics surrounded him.

"Concussion," he gasped, pointing shakily towards the work table, which was now absolutely covered in melted chocolate. "Forgot . . . to add . . . the neutralizing . . . agent."

The Oompa-Loompas glanced at each other in concern, and efficiently began to load him onto a stretcher. It took all six of them to manage it. As they wheeled him out of the room, Wonka heard the familiar roll of drumbeats start behind him. He felt relieved when the inventing room door slid shut, muffling the sound. This time, he had a feeling that he wasn't going to like their lyrics.

* * *

Charlie fumed all the way home from the airport. Curled in the backseat of the car with his arms crossed around his chest, he glared out the window while his parents tried to make small talk with him. Granted, Willy Wonka never liked leaving the factory, but Charlie thought he might have made an exception for him. Besides, Wonka's words on the phone last night had almost seemed to promise that he'd come. _He said he'd see me,_ Charlie thought, glaring out the window. _Why did he lie?_

He'd half expected Wonka to be waiting for them at the gates of the factory with some explanation, but when the Bucket family slipped through one of the side entrances, Willy Wonka was nowhere in sight. Somebody tugged on his pants leg, and Charlie glanced down.

An Oompa-Loompa stood there, reaching out a hand for Charlie's suitcase. It was almost as big as the little man. Smiling a little, Charlie handed it over to him. The Oompa-Loompa gripped the handle, then stuck two fingers of his spare hand into his mouth, and let out a piercing whistle. A group of Oompa-Loompas appeared in the corridor from various side passages, assembling themselves around the suitcase.

"Your room, boss?" The Oompa-Loompa asked, and Charlie nodded, watching them wheel it away.

A hand gripped his shoulder, and he turned to see his mother watching him. "I'm sure he has a good reason for not being here, darling," she said.

Charlie glared at the floor. "I don't want to talk about it," he said.

He could practically feel the concerned expressions his mother and father were exchanging over him. Forcing a smile, Charlie said, "Where's Grandma Georgina?"

Answering him with a shaky smile of her own, Mrs. Bucket began leading them down the familiar corridor to the chocolate room. "She's waiting at home for you, darling. She was excited to see you. You know she hasn't been feeling very well lately."

They'd reached the tiny door at the end. His mother reached for her keying, but Charlie lifted his hand. "No, let me."

Pressing forward, he found the right key on his ring by habit, relieved to feel the familiar weight of it in his hand. The door clicked open, and when he stood, his parents were smiling shakily at him. Answering with a wan smile of his own, Charlie pushed the door to the chocolate room open.

The familiar sight of swudge and peppermint trees was almost enough to take his breath away. Charlie moved shakily through the room, noting a few additions here and there. A cluster of daffodil-like flowers now grew near the bank of the river. They bore an uncanny resemblance to teacups and saucers. A few willow trees had been planted, their leaves fashioned out of the feathery candy Wonka made that could dissolve against the tongue. And in the river itself, a clump of Charlie's cream-filled cattails grew. Charlie sighed to see them. At least Wonka had been taking the candy suggestions in his letters seriously.

The Bucket family made their way towards the cottage, which looked as familiar as it always did. For the Bucket family's first Christmas in the factory, Wonka had replaced their crooked shack with a gingerbread cottage that looked like something out of a fairy tale. Its frosted trim and gumdrop decorations sparkled, a fitting compliment to the beauty of the chocolate room. Today, a banner had been stretched over the door of the cottage. "Welcome home, Charlie," it said.

"Thank you," Charlie whispered to his parents.

They looked at each other. "We didn't do this, Charlie," his father said carefully.

A surge of hope ran through Charlie, and he stepped forward, looking around for Mr. Wonka. The chocolatier was nowhere in sight, but as Charlie moved forward, the sound of drumbeats slowly filled the chocolate room. Within a minute, the room's full staff of Oompa-Loompas stood before the Bucket family in two perfectly straight lines. Charlie laughed as they began to sing and dance.

"Welcome back! Welcome home!  
How'd you like it on your own?  
We've heard you've had a lot of fun  
Living off in Washington.  
We missed you nearly every day,  
Because, dear boy, with you away  
Our boss been in such a mood  
We cannot stand his attitude!  
He mopes around, he doesn't sleep,  
We barely get the man to eat.  
He's been so grouchy all the time  
Even his verses do not rhyme.  
Today he managed, worst of all  
To knock his head against a wall!  
So please, dear Charlie, do not fuss  
Be nice to Wonka, and to us!

Charlie grinned as they finished, and he clapped his hands with genuine enthusiasm. "That was great!" he said, looking around for Mr. Wonka. He could perfectly picture the expression on the chocolatier's face -- half enthusiasm, half annoyance. Wonka always loved the Oompa-Loompas' songs, even when they didn't reflect favoringly on him.

"Where is he?" Charlie asked finally.

Grinning broadly at him, the Oompa-Loompas stepped away, revealing the cottage again. Willy Wonka sat on the doorstep, sipping something out of the daffodil cups with Grandma Georgina. Blue eyes met violet, and Wonka rose unsteadily to his feet, reaching for his cane.

Charlie frowned as the chocolatier started towards him. Wonka looked even paler than usual, and he seemed to be relying on the cane more than he usually did. He'd lost weight, too, Charlie realized; his tailored jacket looked almost baggy on him.

"My dear boy," Wonka breathed, stopping within a few feet of Charlie. "You're home."

Charlie nodded unsteadily. Tears burned his eyes. The low embers of anger still burned in his chest, but confronted with Wonka's appearance, the wave of sudden worry and love he felt nearly threatened to extinguish them.

"Did you miss me?" Charlie asked, managing a shaky smile. He'd meant the words as a joke, but the sentence broke a little, despite his best efforts, turning the question into something painful and real. Charlie blinked down at the swudge as Wonka stepped forward, and then a gloved hand was touching his chin, tilting his face up.

"My dear boy," Wonka whispered, his voice husky. "I've missed you more than you can possibly know."

And then they were embracing, Wonka's arms wrapping around him. Charlie buried his face in Wonka's shoulder, clinging to the older man as if he'd never let go. But something was wrong. Wonka released him too soon, an element of forced casualness in his smile. Charlie's parents were trying hard not to stare at them.

"Well," Mr. Bucket finally said with forced joviality. "Should we eat?"

They filed into the cottage and settled themselves into their usual places around the table. As always, it seemed disturbingly empty without the other three grandparents. Wonka sat next to Grandma Georgina, who smiled dreamily up at him, her eyes sliding into focus for one rare moment.

"Where have you been?" she asked him.

Wonka smiled tightly, and and seemed about to respond, but the clarity faded in her eyes and Grandma Georgina glanced somewhere over Charlie's head, whispering, "George never did like toffee, you know."

Wonka gripped the edge of the table, and his eyes sought Charlie's almost desperately. Charlie smiled grimly in reply, also disturbed. It had been painful for the Bucket family to lose the other three grandparents, but in a way, Wonka had seemed to take their losses the hardest. He'd never seen the need for their deaths, not when he had the means to stop them.

"Charlie," Mr. Bucket said, "Why don't you tell Grandma Georgina about your friends at college?"

"They're great!" Charlie said, smiling across the table at his grandma. She smiled and nodded, but he got the feeling that she wasn't listening to a word he was saying. "I live with four other kids," he said. "There's Mark, and John, and Isabelle, and Amy and me."

"And I," Wonka corrected sourly. He was glaring down at his roast beef sandwich, which he hadn't begun to eat.

"And I," Charlie repeated, shooting an annoyed glance at the chocolatier. "They're good friends," he said.

"You know, my father finally wrote back to me about those gosh-danged toothbrushes," Wonka said, smiling brightly at Charlie. "I think he's actually impressed with them!"

"That's great," Charlie said.

"How are your classes, darling?" Mrs. Bucket asked.

"They're all right," Charlie said. "Finals week was tough, though. All the professors load on these damned assignments, one after another, and--"

"Watch your mouth, young man!" Wonka snapped at him.

Charlie glared at him. The embers of anger in his chest were growing hotter, threatening to roar into an all-out blaze. "I'm not a little boy anymore," he said. "You can't tell me how to talk."

"Aren't these tomatoes delicious, darling?" Mr. Bucket said loudly, trying to change the subject.

Mrs. Bucket nodded desperately. "Oh yes," she said. "It's amazing how well they grow in the greenhouse."

But Charlie and Wonka ignored them, still glaring at each other.

"I have every right to worry about how the heir to my factory is composing himself," Wonka said icily. "Your behavior reflects on mine, Charlie. I think you're learning some nasty habits at college."

"Well maybe you should have thought of that before you sent me away!" Charlie snapped. "It's your own fault!"

"Boys!" Mrs. Bucket said. "That's quite enough."

Charlie and Wonka turned as one to glare at her.

"More soup, Willy?" Mr. Bucket asked cheerfully.

Wonka glanced down at his bowl of tomato soup. He'd hardly touched it. "No," he said. "Thank you."

"It's always beautiful in July," Grandma Georgina said, staring vacantly out the window.

Charlie swallowed painfully, and took a bite of his sandwich. "I think you'd like my friends," he said to his parents. "They're really fantastic. I wish you could meet them."

"So do I, Charlie," Mrs. Bucket said.

"Heh," Wonka said, "I wonder if we could make a candy dental floss."

This time, Charlie ignored him. "Mark plays the guitar," he said. "He wants to start a band someday. I told him I'd write his song lyrics."

"That's terrific, Charlie," Mr. Bucket said.

"And Amy always comes up with the craziest ideas," Charlie said. "Last week, she figured out how to get onto the roof. We made all these little parachutes out of our old class notes and sent them flying down at people."

"Isn't that dangerous, Charlie?" Mrs. Bucket asked.

He shrugged. "Maybe," he admitted. "We were careful though. And there's a railing. Anyway, we managed to get down before our RA found out about it."

"Candy floss and candy mouthwash," Wonka muttered, glaring into his soup bowl.

Charlie shot him an annoyed glance. "They're really great," he said again. "Did I tell you guys what we did for Thanksgiving?"

Wonka's eyes darkened, going nearly brown. He gripped his soup spoon in his hand as if he'd like to break it. "Can't we talk about something else?"

Charlie glared at him. "You should be happy I'm having fun," he said. "You sent me there!"

Inexplicably, Wonka glanced at Mrs. Bucket. "Yes," he said. "Yes, _I_ did."

An odd expression of guilt passed across his mother's face, but Charlie was too angry to dwell on it. "You just can't handle the thought of me having fun without you," Charlie said to Wonka. "You're jealous!"

"Charlie!" Mrs. Bucket said.

"I most certainly am not!" Wonka snapped.

"Well what would you call it?" Charlie asked.

Wonka scowled at the table, refusing to answer.

"Well you know what?" Charlie said. "I am having fun without you. My friends are great. At least _they_ don't always try to boss me around."

Wonka's lips tightened into a thin line. "If everything is so darn fantastic there, why did you even bother coming home?" he asked. The words hovered dangerously in the air between them.

Tears burned suddenly in Charlie's eyes, and he wiped them away angrily. "I don't know!" he snapped. "Maybe I shouldn't have!"

He regretted the words almost as soon as he said them. The remaining color drained from Wonka's face, and he stood unsteadily, reaching for his cane.

"Mr. Wonka," Charlie said weakly. "I . . ."

The chocolatier turned to glare at him. To his surprise, Charlie saw that Wonka, too, looked almost ready to cry.

"I don't have to put up with this," Wonka said. "I'm leaving."

And without another word, he stalked out of the cottage, not even bothering to grab his coat and hat where they hung.

Charlie looked desperately at his parents. He felt absolutely horrible.

"I think it's going to rain," Grandma Georgina said.

Mr. Bucket shot a significant look to his wife. "I think we'd better get Mum back in bed," he said, helping Grandma Georgina up from the table.

"Yes," Mrs. Bucket said. "That's probably a good idea."

Charlie sighed, pushing his soup aside. "I'm not hungry," he said. "I'm going to my room."

"Charlie, wait," Mrs. Bucket said. She watched her husband help her mother out of the dining room, and then she turned back to her son. For some reason she couldn't quite meet his eyes. "Charlie," she said, "You musn't be angry with Mr. Wonka. It wasn't his fault, darling. He didn't want you to leave."

"Then why did he make me?" Charlie asked. "He didn't have to. He's Willy Wonka. He's always done whatever the hell he wanted."

Her eyes widened at his language, but she didn't chastise him for it. Her mind seemed to be somewhere else. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Nervously, she fiddled with her soup spoon.

"You know something," Charlie said, hurt that Wonka would confide in his mother, but not in him. "What did he tell you? Do you know why he made me leave?"

"Charlie . . ." his mother seemed to be steeling herself for something. She closed her eyes, gripping the teacup until her knuckles whitened. "Charlie, I made Mr. Wonka send you away," she said. "If you must hate somebody, hate me."

"What?" Charlie stared at her. "Why? Why would you do something like that?"

She looked wretched. Wiping her eyes, she said, "Because I could count on one hands the number of times you'd been out of the factory since you moved in here! You've given over half of your life to this place, Charlie. I couldn't let you hand over the rest of it, too, not until you knew what you were giving up."

Charlie stared at her. He couldn't quite believe her words. "I love the factory," Charlie said. "I didn't want to leave."

"It . . . it seemed like the right decision at the time," Mrs. Bucket said. "I didn't expect you both to be this miserable about it."

"This whole time you've let me think it was Mr. Wonka," Charlie said softly, feeling almost sick from betrayal.

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Bucket said. She was crying in earnest now. "I should have told you, I know, but I knew that if it came from me, you wouldn't listen. You always do what Willy asks you to, even if you hate it."

Charlie stared at her. He couldn't give voice to the number of thoughts crowding his head. Only one thing was clear to him. "I have to talk to Mr. Wonka," he said, hurrying past the weeping form of his mother and out the cottage door.

* * *

Wonka's private rooms were located deep within the recesses of the factory, far away from windows and prying eyes. Charlie had been here only twice before, accompanied by Wonka both times. As he stepped out of the Great Glass Elevator and into a dim hallway lit by candy-shaped wall sconces, Charlie felt like an intruder. The hallway ended in a magnificent set of wooden doors, each emblazoned with Wonka's signature W. Charlie ignored the doors, and knelt instead to study the molding on the left wall. After a few seconds, he found the correct knot in the wood, almost invisible in the dim light. Wonka always prodded it gently with his cane; Charlie jabbed it with one finger. The results were the same.

Two sections of the carpeted floor swung downwards, revealing a dark staircase leading down. Charlie peered dubiously at it -- he knew from past experience that the stairs were steep and dimly lit. Even with Wonka holding his arm, the journey down had always terrified him. Steeling his courage, Charlie took one step down, then two, holding on to the stone wall for balance. When his boot hit the sixth step, the walls shuddered around him, and the trap door above slid shut, leaving him in near complete darkness. The stairs were lit only by the narrow bands of violet light that lined either side of each step.

Charlie held tightly to the wall, and started the journey down, carefully finding each step with his foot before setting his weight on it. Perhaps, he thought, he should be grateful that Wonka wasn't with him -- sometimes Wonka liked to take the stairs at a full run, tugging Charlie along behind him. How the man could navigate this dark staircase so easily in his stacked boots was something that Charlie had never quite managed to figure out.

Somehow Charlie managed to make it to the bottom of the staircase in one piece. It ended in a carpeted hallway that led to a single wooden door. Stepping up to it nervously, Charlie knocked, and waited.

The moments stretched by, and after awhile, Charlie knocked again, knowing full well the futility of the gesture. The factory's security system had alerted Wonka the second Charlie started down the staircase. Wonka had to be deliberately ignoring Charlie now.

Taking a deep breath, Charlie raised his hand to knock again, wondering if he could wear Wonka down by sheer obstinance. But the door swung open even as his knuckles grazed it, and Charlie found himself staring at Willy Wonka.

They stood in silence for a moment, studying each other. Wonka had been crying, Charlie realized -- his eyes looked swollen, and his face was red and blotchy. He gripped the door frame as if for support. After a moment, Wonka stepped back, and gestured Charlie inside.

"Come in," he said.

Charlie stepped into the sitting room. Unlike the rest of the factory, Wonka's personal quarters were neither technicolor bright nor sparklingly sterile. The floors were cherry-colored wood, polished to a shine. Thick tapestries hung on the walls, their pictures telling the story of how Wonka had rescued the Oompa-Loompas from their homeland, smuggling them across the ocean in a gigantic submarine and building them a new village in the hothouse jungle where his cacao beans grew. As a child, Charlie had read those tapestries like comics, gasping at the scenes where Wonka vanquished a fierce snozzwhanger or outwitted a cunning shark. Now, Charlie hardly looked at them.

"Sit down," Wonka said, and Charlie sat carefully on one of Wonka's overstuffed velvet sofas. Wonka hesitated a second, wondering, Charlie knew, whether or not he should sit beside him. A moment passed. Wonka took the armchair opposite. He wrung his hands nervously.

Charlie swallowed. "I came here to apologize. I haven't been fair to you. I know that." Wonka was watching him with wide eyes, but he didn't speak. Charlie swallowed and said, "I . . . I talked to my mum. She told me that she asked you to send me away."

Wonka stiffened. "Did she say why?" he asked, an odd tightness in his voice.

Charlie shrugged. "She said that she wanted me to see more of the world," he said. "I didn't really understand it. Why? Is that the real reason?"

Wonka studied the carpet. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then seemed to think better of the idea. His hands tightened compulsively where they were clasped on his lap. At last, he looked nervously up at Charlie, and asked, "Are you really enjoying yourself at college?"

Charlie hesitated a second, wanting to press the other subject. But Wonka was looking at him so sadly that he couldn't bring himself to do it. "I am," he said softly. "It was hard at first. I missed the factory, and all of you. But my suitemates are great. And so is my RA, Gretchen. They've helped me out a lot."

Wonka nodded. "Good," he said. "I'm glad." But he didn't sound glad. His voice was higher than normal, nervous, and his eyes had a distant cast.

"Mr. Wonka?" Charlie said. "What is it?"

Wonka shook his head. He shied away from Charlie's gaze, staring instead at the tapestry across the room. Charlie frowned and rose from the sofa, crossing to stand beside Wonka's chair.

"Please tell me," Charlie whispered. Greatly daring, he set his hand on Wonka's shoulder.

Wonka glanced at the hand and then up at Charlie. "Charlie," he whispered. "Are you . . ."

He broke off, shaking his head. Charlie squeezed the shoulder beneath his hand, and sat on the arm of Wonka's armchair, bringing himself even closer to the other man. "Tell me," Charlie said again.

"Promise me," Wonka whispered, staring desperately at the carpet.

"What?"

"Promise you won't leave me. When the year is over, please, promise you'll come back."

Wonka finally looked up, and Charlie was shocked to see tear tracks glistening on his face. Shocked to tenderness, Charlie leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the chocolatier. Wonka melted against him, burying his face in Charlie's shoulder. One gloved hand rose tentatively to rest on Charlie's chest. Charlie stroked the sleek, dark hair, daring to rest his cheek against it.

"Willy," he said softly. He'd never used the chocolatier's given name before. "I'll come back," Charlie whispered. "Of course I'll come back. I could never leave you."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pleased to announce yet another new addition to the beta team. Everybody say hello to Oddmanrush. _Gratias tibi ago!_ Thanks also to Reibish and Trilliah, who've both helped me with this story in innumerable ways. And another thank you goes out to Nuin for her honest feedback.

Charlie didn't know how long they held held each other. Wonka's sobs had finally stopped some time ago, replaced by long shuddering breaths. In time, those too faded away. He now was laying quietly against Charlie's chest, his head still resting on Charlie's shoulder. Charlie stroked his hair, soaking in this rare closeness between them. They had touched before, but always with an element of formality between them -- Charlie could count on one hand the number of times they'd embraced before now. But this? Nothing in the world compared to having Willy Wonka resting warm against him, to burying his fingers in Wonka's hair. When Wonka finally pulled away, Charlie had to will his muscles to let go.

Wonka smiled nervously, lifting a hand to self-consciously smooth his hair. He was pulling his decorum around him again, doing his best to build the old wall of formality back up between them. Charlie smiled and watched him fondly, and after a second, Wonka gave up, managing a nervous chuckle. Their eyes met, and the uncertainty in Wonka's face eased a little.

"You look terrible," Wonka said, studying Charlie with a wry twist to his lips.

Charlie touched his own face-- he couldn't remember when he'd started crying, but his cheeks still felt raw from the salty tears, and he knew that his shirt was rumpled from Wonka's grip.

"You don't look so good yourself," he said, feeling justified in stretching the truth for once. Even with red cheeks, swollen eyes and rumpled hair, Wonka was one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever seen.

Wonka laughed, and Charlie knew he'd said the right thing. Still chuckling, the chocolatier scooted to the far side of the armchair, opening a space between them. Charlie only hesitated a second before sliding off of the chair's arm to fill it. The armchair was large, and they were both slender men, but even so, it was a tight fit, and Charlie felt absurdly grateful for that. After so many months apart, this physical closeness felt as warm and necessary as sunlight. Wonka seemed to feel the same way. He smiled a little, his eyes fixed on the tapestries across the room, and carefully slid his arm around Charlie's waist, drawing them even closer together. Charlie grinned and leaned against the other man companionably.

"I've been so horrible to you," Charlie said quietly. "Why didn't you tell me it was Mum's idea to send me away?"

"Cowardice," Wonka said. His face looked infinitely sad. "Pure cowardice, my boy."

"What do you mean, cowardice?" Charlie protested. "You took the blame when you didn't have to. How can that possibly be cowardice?"

"There are different kinds of cowardice," Wonka said quietly. "It was easier for me to take the blame than to be honest with you."

"Be honest with me," Charlie whispered, laying his hand over Wonka's gloved one.

Wonka froze. His breath came sharply. He wouldn't meet Charlie's eyes. For a moment, something seemed to be building inside of him, the same rising force of inspiration or bravery that always seemed to preface each new idea or change in their relationship. For a second, Charlie thought Wonka might actually take him up on his dare.

But the moment faded. Wonka exhaled softly and seemed to fold in on himself. His hand slid out from beneath Charlie's.

"I can't Charlie," he said softly. "I can't."

"You won't," Charlie corrected bitterly.

Wonka nodded, looking pained. "I won't," he repeated.

Charlie sighed, leaning back against the chair. The sudden sense of despair he felt threatened to overwhelm him. "You never want to let me in," he said softly. "How are we supposed to be partners someday if you don't trust me enough to tell me anything?"

"No," Wonka protested. "That's not it at all!" He glanced suddenly away from Charlie, as if he couldn't stand to meet his eyes. "Don't you realize? I've let you in _too_ far." He sighed, looking down at the carpet. "Maybe that's the real reason I made you go," he said softly, as if he were speaking to himself. "I needed to see if I could lose you."

"Could you?" Charlie asked, needing to hear the answer, but dreading it all the same.

Wonka glanced up at him, an ironic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "No," he said. "Not as long as there's any other option."

Unsure what to say, Charlie simply reached again, resting his hand on Wonka's arm. This time, Wonka allowed the touch. Charlie stroked Wonka's arm gently through his silk shirt. When the silence rose up between them again, it was deeper than before, thick with the words they hadn't allowed themselves to say. They sat together, each lost in his own thoughts, connected by the steady stroke of Charlie's bare fingers on Wonka's sleeve.

They both jumped when the clock in the corner struck twelve.

"I should go," Charlie said. "It's getting late."

"Yes," Wonka said softly. "You probably should."

Charlie reluctantly drew away from Wonka and climbed to his feet. The chocolatier followed him to the doorway, where they studied each other for a moment. They were of a height for once; Wonka had removed his boots for the night.

"Good night, Mr. Wonka," Charlie said.

Wonka smiled sadly in reply. "Good night, Charlie."

Charlie started to turn, and then Wonka's hand was on his wrist, stopping him.

"Charlie," Wonka said. "I'm trying. I really am trying."

"I know," Charlie said wearily. He managed a smile, relieved to see Wonka relaxing slightly at the sight of it. "Let me know when you're ready," he said softly.

Wonka nodded and squeezed Charlie's wrist gently before releasing it. "My dear boy," he promised. "You'll be the first to know."

Charlie nodded and, turning, started the long journey back up the stairs. He already knew that they wouldn't speak of this in the morning.

* * *

The next morning in the inventing room, Charlie stirred a pot full of boiling purple goo, carefully scraping the sides and the bottoms of the pot with his wooden spoon to keep the thick mess of blueberries from burning. As he stirred, he looked, not at the pot itself, but at the air above it, where steam rolled up in violet clouds, only to be sucked into the pipes above his head. Once trapped, the steam circled twice above the work table (the pipes were bent into an infinity knot there) and passed through a set of cooling fans, where it condensed back into liquid and dripped down into a waiting flask. When a good three inches of liquid had collected there, Charlie removed the pot from the burner, and turned towards the group of waiting Oompa-Loompas.

"I think it's ready."

They fell into motion around him, their movements coordinating with each other like clockwork. One of them caught up the flask of violet liquid and carried it across the room to the machine Charlie had taken out of storage that morning. Pouring it carefully into one of the machine's many chambers, he checked a few dials on the side, quickly adjusted some of the settings, and gave a thumbs-up sign to Charlie.

"Here goes nothing," Charlie said, and pulled the lever.

The machine started up in a burst of sound and flashing lights. Gathering around it, the Oompa-Loompas watched as the mechanical chute unfolded and dispensed a single stick of Wonka's Magic Chewing Gum.

Charlie took it carefully, and his test subject stepped forward. "Are you ready?" Charlie asked, a little nervously.

The Oompa-Loompa, whose name was Dave, nodded bravely and held out his hand. Charlie handed him the stick of gum and he took it gingerly, as though it might explode. The other Oompa-Loompas gathered around now, waiting to see what would happen.

With only a single swallow betraying his nervousness, Dave put the gum in his mouth and began to chew.

"How is it?" Charlie asked.

"Tomato soup," Dave said. "Delicious, of course." He kept chewing, and his voice grew a bit more nervous as he said, "Here comes the baked potato. Roast beef. Hmm. It needs more ketchup, boss."

Charlie nodded to a second Oompa-Loompa, who took a note of that.

"Blueberry pie," Dave announced nervously, and Charlie and the collected Oompa-Loompas held their breath. Dave continued to chew, his eyes screwed shut, as if in concentration or prayer. Charlie stared at his nose, waiting for the familiar spot of violet to appear. But nothing happened.

Dave stopped chewing and blinked, looking faintly surprised at having not turned into a blueberry. "It's finished," he said, taking the gum from his mouth.

"How do you feel?" Charlie asked, as the medical Oompa-Loompas circled the test subject, looking for any signs of adverse change.

Dave shrugged. "Full."

Charlie grinned in relief, leaning back against the work table. From behind him, he heard the slow clap of gloved hands. Turning, he saw Wonka standing in the doorway, a pleased smile on his face.

"You fixed it," Wonka said. "What did you do?"

"Steam distillation," Charlie said. "I thought that might capture the flavor without transmitting the . . . other properties of the blueberries."

"Brilliant," Wonka said with an electric smile.

Charlie bushed, and glanced at the floor. "It was selfishness, really," he said. "This will be a hit amongst college students. We don't have a lot of time to cook, and dorm food is terrible."

"Well I'll just have to send you back with some," Wonka promised, and Charlie smiled. Their eyes met, and they both blushed, looking away from each other.

"Did you need the room?" Charlie asked.

"No, I came to find you, silly," Wonka said. "We need to catch up on lost time." And from some hidden pocket in his jacket, he produced a pair of ice skates.

Charlie stared at them a second, dumbfounded, then burst out laughing. Even after eight years at the factory, he'd yet to figure out how Wonka managed to fit so much stuff into his pockets while maintaining his thin silhouette.

"The lake?" he asked when he managed to recover, and Wonka beamed at him.

"I had it frozen this morning."

"Not before?" Charlie asked, genuinely curious. Wonka had always loved ice skating in the factory's artificial winter -- he'd dragged Charlie onto the frozen lake more often than he could count, though Charlie's skating skills hadn't improved at all for the practice.

"There didn't seem to be much point by myself," Wonka said.

Signaling for the Oompa-Loompas to begin cleaning up, Charlie fell into step beside Wonka as they left the inventing room.

"You know I won't have gotten any better," he warned as they approached the elevator.

Wonka only shrugged. "You can't possibly have gotten any worse."

* * *

Wonka had installed the lake five years ago, as a present for Charlie's thirteenth birthday.  
It opened off of the chocolate room, a calm, peaceful lake of clear soda water, surrounded by swudge and peppermint trees. In honor of the season, a white coat of powdered sugar dusted the swudge and the candy-hard surface of the lake.

Stepping to the side of the frozen lake, Wonka rapped gently at it with his cane. "Oh good," he said, smiling. "It's frozen solid."

Charlie sat on the hard bench near the water, and slowly began unlacing his shoes. Wonka settled down beside him, changing into his own skates with surprising speed.

"Are you ready?" Wonka asked, rising to his feet and balancing carefully on his skates in the swudge.

Charlie nodded, and swallowed. "Ready," he said, climbing to his own feet. They stepped awkwardly to the lake in their skates. Wonka reached it first, and stepping onto the frozen soda, glided smoothly out into the center of the lake. Charlie hesitated a second at the border of the ice, already feeling the rise of panic in his throat. Taking a deep breath, he, too, stepped onto the ice, holding out his arms to catch his balance.

The first moment of sliding. Feeling he might fall. And then, opening his eyes, he realized he'd managed to remain upright once again. Still holding out his arms, he began to awkwardly skate around the edge, trying to catch the rhythm that Wonka kept counseling him to find.

Wonka, infuriatingly enough, was as graceful on ice as he was on land. He was skating backwards now, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. As Charlie watched, he turned a graceful figure-eight, his skates cutting smoothly across the hard surface of the soda. Charlie ruefully shook his head, feeling younger than ever as he struggled just to remain upright.

After a few moments, Wonka skated to his side, holding out his mittened hand. Smiling ruefully, Charlie took it, and allowed the older man to tow him to the center of the lake.

"Just relax," Wonka said, smiling sideways at Charlie.

Charlie took a deep breath, and nodded shakily. As always, he found that he was relaxing now that he had ahold of Wonka's hand. It was so much easier to balance with someone to hold onto.

"I won't let you fall," Wonka was saying. "You know that, right?"

"I know," Charlie said, managing a smile.

Wonka beamed at him. "Besides," he added, "Even if you do fall, you're not going very fast. You wouldn't get more than a bruise or two."

"And soda shavings in my hair," Charlie reminded him, smiling at the memory of their first time ice skating on this lake. He'd been a sticky mess afterward -- of course, the dusting of powdered sugar hadn't helped.

Wonka grinned. "Your mom wasn't too happy with me then, was she?"

"She's been madder," Charlie said. He'd started frowning at the thought of his mother. With effort, he managed to keep his voice even. "Remember that time I broke my arm in the squirrels-only gym?"

Wonka winced. "I still feel bad about that," he admitted.

"Don't," Charlie said. "It healed." He sighed, focusing on the movement of his feet to distract himself. "I'm still mad at her," he said softly.

Wonka glanced sideways at him and squeezed his hand. "I know."

They'd reached the center of the lake now. Wonka leaned close, and said, "I'm going to let you go. Are you ready?" Charlie nodded grimly. Wonka squeezed his hand and started to count. "One, two, three!"

On three, he released Charlie's hand, and Charlie managed to remain upright, sliding forward from pure momentum. The edge of the lake drew nearer. He managed a turn, irrationally pleased to manage it without falling. Wonka breezed by him, all sparkling eyes and dazzling smile, and Charlie grinned as he passed. Another turn. He managed this one as well, just as smoothly, and finally managed the confidence to glance up from his feet. Of course, that proved nearly to be his undoing. A spot of rough ice on the lake caught his blade. He faltered for a minute, waving his arms for balance, and then Wonka's hands were catching him, steadying him until he regained his balance. Charlie smiled his gratitude, and Wonka skated away, humming happily to himself.

The next time they passed each other, Charlie held out his hands and Wonka took them, drawing him into his orbit. Their eyes locked, and they grinned at each other. They were spinning around each other in tighter and tighter circles, joined by the axis of their clasped hands, until Wonka finally drew to a graceful halt, pulling Charlie to a stop as well, steadying him. Wonka smiled slowly, his lightheartedness gone, replaced by something deeper and more mysterious. It felt almost as if something were solidifying in the space between them. The air suddenly seemed thicker than before.

Wonka's hands released his own and slid instead up his arms, gripping him gently and pulling him even closer. Their noses brushed. Charlie's eyes focused for a moment on Wonka's lips, and he realized suddenly what was going to happen. His eyes drifted shut, and he could see Wonka's doing the same as they leaned towards each other --

An embarrassed cough from behind them broke the moment. Charlie's eyes snapped open and he released Wonka as if burned. He spun suddenly on his skates, and would have fallen had Wonka not caught his arms, steadying him.

Mr. Bucket stood in the powdered sugar snow at the edge of the lake, wearing a ridiculous knitted cap and an embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything."

"You didn't!" Charlie said, a little too quickly. Wonka only quirked an eyebrow, crossing his arms across his chest.

Mr. Bucket just smiled, wringing his hands together. "Charlie," he said, "Your mother's made some Christmas cookies. Why don't you two come and try some?"

"No thanks," Charlie said. "I'm not hungry." Wonka remained silent behind him, but he'd inched a bit closer to Charlie, lending his quiet support. Charlie tried to take comfort from the closeness, even while a part of him wanted to step a safe distance away from the chocolatier. What must his father be thinking?

But whatever was on Mr. Bucket's mind, this new closeness between his son and Wonka seemed to be the least of his problems. Scratching nervously behind one ear, he said, "I know that you're upset with your mother."

Charlie snorted, glaring at the sugary snow.

"I don't blame you for that," Mr. Bucket said quickly. "Mind you, I'm not sure I agree with her myself. But we're a family, son," he said quietly, his voice gentling, as it always did when he was making a point. "Whatever happens, we need to stick together. I'm not asking you to forgive her today. I'm just asking you to come back to the cottage for an hour or so."

Charlie shook his head. He glanced back at Wonka for assistance, but to his surprise, the chocolatier just bit his lip and said in a pained voice, "Charlie, I think your father's right."

"What?!" Charlie cried, stepping away from Wonka. Mr. Bucket, too, looked shocked; both of them could count on one hand the number of times Wonka had sided with Charlie's parents in an argument.

Wonka smiled uncomfortably. "I don't have a family," he said softly. "But if I'd had one like yours, I wouldn't be so quick to throw them away."

"You do have a family," Charlie said, daring to squeeze the other man's shoulder, despite his father's eyes.

Mr. Bucket nodded firmly. "Come on, both of you," he said. "Let's go home."

* * *

Charlie followed his father into the cottage to discover that the Oompa-Loompas had been there the previous night. An enormous Christmas tree took most of the available space in the Bucket family's living room -- the gingerbread cottage that Wonka had given them eight years ago was larger than their old shack, but still cozy, and for size, this tree rivaled even last year's. That had been an exceptional creation, crafted of delectable spearmint needles and almond bark. This tree smelled of pine, mixed with something a little sweeter. Vanilla maybe. Charlie would need to taste it to be sure. He took his seat on the sofa, wondering if the Oompa-Loompas were quite so sneaky in setting it up now that Charlie had moved out of the cottage. As a child, he'd tried every year to catch them at the task, but whether through magic or some conspiracy with his parents, they'd always managed to arrive _after_ he'd fallen asleep. Once or twice, he'd woken to find that they'd set it practically on top of him -- even in the factory, few things could rival the surrealism of waking to the unexpected glow of Christmas lights and the faint brush of tinsel against your cheek.

Wonka settled on the sofa beside him, close enough to touch, but not touching. Charlie smiled gratefully at him, then turned towards his mother as she stepped into the room. She smiled nervously at both of them, smoothing her patchwork apron self-consciously. For the first time, Charlie found himself studying the lines of grey at her temples, the loose skin under her throat. He remembered the way she had cried yesterday, and a momentary trickle of pity washed through his anger. It seemed wrong to see his mother looking this uncertain around him, as if his entire world had turned upside down without his noticing.

"Would you boys like milk or hot chocolate?" Mrs. Bucket asked, with only a hint of nervous tremor in her voice. "Or there's eggnog if you'd like -- I suppose you're old enough to drink it, Charlie."

"Milk, please," Charlie said quickly, unable to picture drinking in front of his parents. Wonka asked for hot chocolate, and Mrs. Bucket disappeared back into the kitchen.

From the bed, Grandma Georgina turned her head slowly towards them. She had a bedroom of her own now, of course, but she preferred to be out in the living room, where she could still feel the bustle of the cottage around her, even if most of it did pass her by.

"It's almost Easter!" she announced, her voice weaker than Charlie had ever heard it. "George will be coming soon. He always did like mistletoe."

Wonka's lips tightened, and Charlie touched his arm, unsure which of them he was comforting. For a moment, his mind flashed back to Grandpa Joe. A month before the old man's death, Charlie had returned home to the cottage after his history lesson to hear his grandpa's voice drifting through the open window, followed by Willy Wonka's. Creeping closer, Charlie had peered through the window to see Wonka sitting on the side of the bed, arguing with his grandfather in hushed tones.

_"But I'm ready to go, Mr. Wonka," Grandpa Joe says, his voice firm, though weak with age. "I always said that I could die happy if I made it back into this factory one more time, and I did, thanks to you. What more could I possibly want to live for?"_

_"But think about Charlie!" Wonka protests. "He loves you. What would your death do to him?" _

_Grandpa Joe laughs weakly, leaning back against the piled pillows."Charlie is stronger than you think, Mr. Wonka. He'll get past it. He'll have you to help him." Grandpa Joe's eyes drift shut for a moment. "It's my time, Mr. Wonka," he whispers. "I'm old." _

_"But you don't have to be," Wonka protests. "I told you, the Wonka-Vite--"_

_"The Wonka-Vite is yours, Mr. Wonka," Grandpa Joe interrupted. "Yours and Charlie's now, I suppose. You keep taking it. There's precious little magic in the world, these days. It can't afford to lose you. But I'm not magical. I've lived my life. And now I'm ready to move on." _

Charlie shook his head to clear the memory, glancing at the bed, where Grandma Georgina had started snoring again. His mother emerged from the kitchen juggling a platter heaped with cookies and four steaming mugs. Charlie rose automatically to help her, the force of habit overriding his anger. His mother smiled at him as he took some of the mugs from her, but he frowned, looking away.

"Here," he said, passing the mug of hot chocolate to Wonka. Charlie handed the mug of eggnog to his father, and returned to his seat beside Wonka, holding his own glass of milk. Wonka touched his arm briefly, sympathy in his eyes.

Mrs. Bucket passed him the plate of Christmas cookies, and Charlie took one automatically, nibbling at the corner of it.

"S'good," he offered grudgingly. The grateful smile his mother gave him shot a new wave of guilt through him."I fixed the magic chewing gum today," he said, wanting to pretend, at least for a minute, that everything was normal.

"Oh?" Mrs. Bucket said, sounding relieved. "How did you do that?"

And forcing a smile, Charlie started to explain.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks go out to my betas. Without their help, this chapter, quite literally, could not have been completed. Trilliah, Reibish, and Oddmanrush, I hold you all in the highest regard. Thank you, not only for your suggestions, but for listening to me whine while I tried to figure this chapter out. As usual, another thanks must go out to my roommate, Nuin, my last line of defense, who reads through these things just before I post them. Cheers, darlin'.

In his old rooms at the factory, Charlie lay on his bed, flipping through one of his old journals in search of an idea for Wonka's Christmas present. Five years ago, Charlie had started to simply invent new candy whenever Wonka's birthday or Christmas rolled around. As gifts went, it worked surprisingly well. Wonka loved nothing in the world more than candy, after all, and he was always thrilled to see creativity invested on his behalf. But after the stress of finals' week and his first few days home at the factory, Charlie was feeling anything but creative. So instead, he flipped through his old journal, hoping an idea would jump out at him.

_"Write down every idea you get,"_ Wonka had counseled him more than once. "_You never know when you'll need one_." Good advice, and it had saved Charlie on more than one last-minute gift. Like all of his journals, this one was small, black, and neatly emblazoned with the Wonka logo. The page in front of him held a long list of flavor combinations and a few smudged formulas. At the top of the page, he'd written _WATCH THE VISCOSITY_ and underlined it twice. Charlie grinned, remembering that project. He'd developed a batch of gummy tree frogs that could actually climb up walls. Wonka had been thrilled with them, but they hadn't done as well on the market as they'd hoped. It seemed that most people didn't keep their walls very clean, and some girl in Canada had gotten food poisoning after her frog climbed up a nasty patch of bacteria. They'd considered remedying the situation by packaging Wonka's Super Sanitizing Wipes along with the frogs, but had quickly dismissed the idea. Nobody wanted candy that involved _work_, Wonka had said, and Charlie had agreed with him.

Charlie glanced down at the page, shaking his head. Along with the notes for the gummy frogs, he'd penned the sprawling Wonka W up and down the margins of the page, as well as a quick doodle of the chocolatier himself. At least he'd never resorted to drawing hearts or flowers, Charlie thought, smiling painfully at the memory. At fifteen, he'd finally acknowledged the crush he'd had on Wonka almost from the moment he first came to the factory. It had been a horrible year. His heart had raced every time Wonka touched him, and his stomach had clenched whenever Wonka brushed him off. He'd followed Wonka around like a lovesick puppy -- he supposed only Wonka's lack of social skills had kept the chocolatier from realizing how Charlie felt.

Leaning back against the pillows, Charlie closed his eyes, remembering that almost-kiss at the lake yesterday. He pictured the way Wonka's eyes had drifted shut as he'd leaned towards him. If Charlie's father hadn't come along, they would have kissed. He was sure of it. Opening his eyes again, he smiled, tracing one of the Wonka Ws on the page with his fingers.

For years now, Charlie had been doing his best to squelch any hope that Wonka might return his feelings. Hope was a dangerous emotion -- he'd learned that as a child. It made the inevitable disappointment only that much worse. Yet Wonka, with his golden tickets, had been Charlie's first taste of hope come to life, his lesson that dreams could sometimes come true. And now? Charlie touched a finger to his lips, again remembering that afternoon on the frozen lake. Perhaps Wonka would manage to bring even more magic into Charlie's life.

Deliberately turning his thoughts from the chocolatier, Charlie closed his notebook and glanced around his room. It looked curiously Spartan now -- his wall hangings, his cuckoo clock, even his old collection of Wonka bar wrappers now lived in his dorm room back in Washington. The empty walls and the bare desk unnerved him, as did the size of the rooms themselves. Though Charlie's suite was small compared to Wonka's (he had only a bedroom, a bathroom, and a small study/sitting room), after three months of dorm life, he felt small and strangely lonely surrounded by so much empty space. Strange, too, to know that he couldn't venture out of his room and find his suitemates ready for some adventure or another. Charlie enjoyed his privacy, but he'd discovered that he liked having the option of social contact. For the first time, the factory seemed lonely to him.

The familiar sound of Wonka's cane rapping against his door snapped him out of his thoughts, and Charlie sat up, smiling. The factory wasn't _entirely_ lonely, he reminded himself.

"Come in!" he called, hiding the journal beneath his bed.

The door clicked open, and Wonka stepped inside, wearing a false smile that warmed into sincerity when his eyes met Charlie's.

"Hey there, lazy bones," Wonka said, the warmth in his eyes belying the chiding tone to his voice. "What are you hiding away in here for? It's half past eight already! We've been getting rush orders all morning -- they're running out of Wonka candy in China, Turkey, Russia and Australia. We'll have to get a shipment out by noon if we want it to make the stores before Christmas Eve."

"Sorry," Charlie said. "I lost track of time. I was just thinking."

"Anything worth sharing?" Wonka asked, crossing the room to stand beside Charlie's bed.

Charlie blushed. "Not really.

Wonka offered him a hand to help him up, and Charlie took it, holding on a bit longer than necessary. Violet eyes lingered on him, and just for a second, Charlie thought that Wonka might lean forward, might kiss him. A nervous thrill shot through him and he held his breath, waiting. But the moment passed. Wonka's eyes cooled from violet to blue, his expression settling into his businessman mode. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out a pocket watch. It was smaller than the watch he'd given Charlie, silver instead of brass, although it still bore the Wonka W across its cover. Flipping it open, he shook his head in mock dismay.

"Oh dear," he said. "Three whole minutes spent collecting you. Charlie, come on, we haven't a second to lose!"

And catching hold of Charlie's wrist, Wonka dragged him, laughing, to the Great Glass Elevator.

The morning hours passed in a flurry of paperwork and excitement. The Oompa-Loompas were more than capable of getting out a rush shipment on time, but Wonka insisted on supervising them, making sure each detail was in perfect place.

For breakfast, they paused for a moment, and only a moment: breakfast turned out to be Wonka's magic chewing gum. He'd modified the formula slightly -- the meal now consisted of bacon and eggs, fruit salad, and blueberry pancakes.

"Just imagine how much more productive we'll be now that you've fixed the formula," Wonka said, smiling as he popped the stick of gum in his mouth. "Why, we won't need to eat at all!"

Charlie just smiled ruefully, shaking his head and he chewed his own gum. Sometimes he thought the hardest part of working at the factory was convincing Wonka to take care of himself. At least the gum was slightly more substantial than Wonka's vitamins were -- Wonka had once confessed that before the Bucket family moved into the factory and evening dinners became the norm, he'd lived almost entirely on vitamins and chocolate.

The shipment made it out by noon, of course, with fifteen minutes left to spare. But Wonka only allowed Charlie a moment to catch his breath before dragging him to the inventing room and showing him each and every one of the experiments he'd started while Charlie was away at school. They spent the next few hours troubleshooting various aspects of the experiments. When Wonka finally suggested that they take a break, Charlie was more-than-ready to stop. He set his tools down carefully, stripping off his chocolate-dusted lab coat. Wonka had removed his coat as well, tossing it into the bin in the wall for cleaning.

"How about lunch?" he asked, smiling at Charlie.

Charlie grinned back at him. "Sure."

He wondered if lunch would be Wonka's Magic Chewing gum again -- whenever one of them successfully completed a candy, Wonka tended to eat it obsessively for days on end, until he tired of the taste and invented something new. Sometimes Charlie suspected Wonka made so many different types of candy simply because his palette grew bored so quickly. But instead of reaching into his pocket for another stick of gum, Wonka let loose the ululating cry he used to summon the Oompa-Loompas. One came trotting over. Bending low, Wonka whispered in his ear. Charlie smiled fondly at them, wondering what was so important that Wonka didn't want him to hear it.

Straightening, Wonka shot Charlie a brilliant grin and offered him his arm. "Shall we?"

Charlie took his arm, blushing as a nervous thrill ran through him from the familiar gesture. Again, he thought back to the almost-kiss they'd shared yesterday at the lake. Wonka glanced sidelong at him, a violet warmth to his eyes, and Charlie wondered if he were thinking about it too. But whatever was on his mind, the chocolatier only smiled and led Charlie out of the inventing room.

This time, Wonka didn't head for the Great Glass Elevator, nor did he summon the candy gondola. Instead, he steered Charlie into the maze of corridors connecting the various rooms of the factory. They strolled quietly together, alone, save for the occasional group of passing Oompa-Loompas. Charlie thought they might go to Wonka's quarters (the chocolatier had a small dining room there, where he'd taken his meals before the Bucket family moved into the factory), but when they drew to a halt, it was outside the door of the chocolate room.

Charlie bit his lip as Wonka reached for his key. The awkward evening with his parents hadn't gone badly, exactly, but he was in no mood to repeat it. Catching sight of his expression, Wonka smiled reassuringly.

"Don't worry," he said. "Your dad's at work and your mom had to take your grandma to her doctor appointment. They'll be gone for an hour at least."

"Oh," Charlie said, relaxing. Wonka might trust to the Oompa-Loompas and his own genius for all of his medical complaints, but Charlie's parents had never given up their reliance on modern medicine. Once a year, they insisted on dragging Charlie to a physician downtown for his annual checkup, and they still took Grandma Georgina to the doctor, no matter that the only real cure for old age was in the factory. Of course, after her first and only experience with Wonka-Vite, Grandma Georgina was dead set against taking it again -- she remained clear about that, no matter how fuzzy her brain got the rest of the time.

Wonka unlocked the door and they stepped inside, both of them pausing for a moment to take in the beauty of the chocolate room. As much as he loved the vibrant green swudge, Charlie sometimes thought the room was at its most beautiful in winter, with a dusting of powdered sugar on every surface. The chocolate room's beauty still managed to amaze him, even after all these years. But then, he thought, Wonka never seemed to lose his fascination with it either.

Catching hold of Charlie's arm again, Wonka led him to a knoll by the riverbank, where the Oompa-Loompas had set up an ornate wrought-iron garden table beneath a willow tree made of feathery candy. A steaming tureen sat on the table, a loaf of bread beside it.

Tossing his cane to the side, Wonka sat at the table, and Charlie took the seat across from him. The tureen turned out to contain oyster stew. They filled their bowls with it, breaking off chunks of the dark bread, still slightly warm from the oven. Charlie smiled as the rich taste of the stew flowed across his tongue. The gum was delicious, but no real substitute for eating, he decided. Dipping a corner of his bread into the stew, he glanced across the table at Wonka, who was eating fastidiously, as always, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his cloth napkin.

"What?" Wonka asked, catching him staring.

"Nothing," Charlie said, glancing quickly down at his bowl. He chased a piece of oyster around the bowl with his spoon, until he'd regained his composure enough to glance back up.

Now Wonka was watching him, his eyes dark and serious. Charlie smiled nervously, a bit unnerved. Having Wonka's undivided attention could be terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

"I'm just glad to be back home," Charlie said, forcing himself not to look away. "Thank you for letting me come."

Wonka's expression gentled. "My dear boy," he said softly, reaching across the table to touch his gloved fingers to the back of Charlie's hand. "Of course I did. How couldn't I?"

"You made me leave," Charlie pointed out, and Wonka cringed. Charlie caught his hand before it could lift away, squeezing it gently. "I'm sorry," Charlie said. "I'm not mad at you. Not anymore. I just meant that you could have said no if you wanted to." He released Wonka's hand reluctantly, picking up his soup spoon again. "To be honest," Charlie said, "I'm kind of glad you sent me away. I hate to say it, but I think Mum was right. I think I needed to leave for awhile."

"I hope she was right," Wonka echoed softly. His voice held a layer of hidden meaning that Charlie couldn't quite decipher. Wonka shook his head as if to clear it, and looked back up at Charlie, a reluctant smile lingering in the corners of his mouth. "You've changed since you left," Wonka said. "You're growing up, aren't you?"

Charlie nodded, feeling a little nostalgic. Wonka chuckled at his expression. "Don't worry. I like it. Mostly." His eyes hardened and he gave Charlie a stern look. "The swearing does need to stop."

"I'll work on it," Charlie promised. The smile Wonka gave him more than made up for any teasing his roommates might give him when he went back.

"Are there any interesting flavors in Washington?" Wonka asked, changing the subject. "Any new animals or plants?"

Charlie grinned. "The slugs are enormous. I haven't tasted one though. And I'm not going to," he added, recognizing the expression on Wonka's face.

Wonka chuckled. "Scaredy-cat."

"Da - darned straight," Charlie said, catching himself just in time. Wonka smiled approvingly at him, sending a warm surge through the base of Charlie's spine. "If you want to know what slugs taste like, you'll have to come over and try one yourself," Charlie said.

Wonka lifted an eyebrow, but didn't deign to respond.

Charlie hesitated a second. "I . . . I wish you would come," he said. "I think you'd like it there. It's beautiful. The trees, and the mountains, and the clouds, and the bay," he faltered for a second, unsure how to describe the wet beauty of Washington state, the constant palette of greens and blues and greys. Life seemed a little more abundant there than in the drab town Charlie had lived in before moving into the factory. Even the sidewalks and the brick buildings on campus had moss growing on them.

Wonka's smile grew distant, and Charlie sighed, knowing better than to press the point. It had always been hard enough convincing the chocolatier to leave the factory and come with him to town. Charlie supposed that asking him to come all the way to United States would be a little too much to expect.

Taking another bite of bread, Charlie chewed thoughtfully before he spoke again. "At least it will be easier going back this time," he said. "I hated being mad at you."

"So did I," Wonka said wryly, and Charlie laughed.

"I was so horrible to you," he said. "I'm sorry. I don't think I can ever apologize enough."

Wonka shrugged. "You had good reason. I'd have done the same in your place. Besides, I knew that was the risk I was taking." His face clouded for a second, then he forced a smile. In a lighter voice, he said, "But you'd better answer my letters from now on, young man!"

"I will, Mr. Wonka," Charlie promised.

Wonka's eyes glowed violet for a second. "Willy," he corrected. "I liked the way it sounded when you called me that the other night." He blushed, glancing at the table, and Charlie rested a hand on his gloved one.

"Willy."

Their eyes met. Wonka smiled. A new awareness of each other charged the air between them; Charlie could practically feel the molecules dancing in the air. Then something shuttered in Wonka's eyes; he seemed inexplicably nervous. Wonka squeezed his hand quickly, then smiled, standing up from the table. He retrieved his cane from the ground, and glanced expectantly down at Charlie.

"Come on," he said, with false excitement in his voice. "I want to show you everything I've done to this place."

Charlie set his napkin on the table and stood as well, following Wonka down the riverbank, to where a cluster of the cream-filled cattails grew.

"I saw these," he said. "I'm glad you decided to use them."

"I modified them a little," Wonka said. "The ones with the brown tufts have chocolate cream. The white ones are vanilla. Isn't that clever?"

"It's great," Charlie said, looking at the cattails, but studying Wonka out of the corner of his eye. The chocolatier didn't fall into this nervous chatter often anymore, not unless he were particularly concerned about something. Playing along for now, Charlie said, "Did you figure out how to keep the chocolate from catching in the stems?" That had been Wonka's initial concern with the cattails -- he'd worried that the melted chocolate might pool around their stems instead of heading back towards the middle of the river where the pipes could collect it. The river's constant motion kept the chocolate fresh, making sure it could be collected and used before growing stale.

Wonka smiled proudly. "Look there," he said, pointing to the surface of the river. Glancing down, Charlie saw that the melted chocolate around the cattails was bubbling slightly. "It's like a blender," Wonka said. "I added leaves beneath the surface that whirl around like blades. Make sure you don't reach in there," he added, shooting Charlie a mischievous expression. "You'd chop all your fingers right off."

Charlie laughed. He loved the occasional dark streak to Wonka's humor, even if it made his parents uneasy. "What about those?" he asked, pointing further up the bank, to where a patch of the daffodil teacups grew.

"Those are fantastic," Wonka said, catching hold of Charlie's wrist and pulling him over to them. "You have to try one."

Crouching nimbly, Wonka plucked one of the daffodil teacups from the ground and, rising, handed it to Charlie.

"Taste it," he said, his eyes sparkling.

Charlie took the cup obligingly, lifting it to his lips. The nectar inside tasted of honey and something faintly crisper. Pears, maybe. He sipped again, smiling at the taste.

"It's delicious."

"Isn't it?" Wonka beamed at him. "I thought we might try something similar using water lilies. "Not in the river, of course; they'd clog up the pipes. But don't you think they'd look good on the lake?"

"They would," Charlie said softly. The mention of the lake reminded him once more about the kiss they'd nearly shared on it, and he felt his cheeks grow hot.

Wonka smiled nervously. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He was studying Charlie intently now, a searching quality to his gaze. Charlie held himself perfectly still, willing himself not to glance away, deliberately keeping his face and body language open, so that Wonka could find whatever it was he was looking for there. After a moment, something crystalized in Wonka's eyes, and he nodded to himself, as if coming to a decision.

"Charlie," Wonka said. "I . . . I told you I was trying. To be honest with you." He shook his head for a moment, seeming lost and confused. "I . . . I . . ." He was opening and closing his mouth, trying to force the words out, but they seemed to be choking him. "I lo--" he tried again, and blanched, the rest of the sentence dying in his throat.

Charlie stepped forward, resting a hand on Wonka's shoulder. The chocolatier glanced down at him from beneath his top hat, shame and frustration evident on his face, and in response to it, Charlie felt something warm and rich bubble up inside of him, sweeter than the finest melted chocolate, a surge of love strong enough to wash away his fear, and maybe some of Wonka's as well.

"It's all right," Charlie said. "I don't need you to say it."

Wonka's eyes locked on Charlie as his mouth fell shut. Silently, he studied Charlie's face, as if he were searching for something there. Charlie forced himself to keep his face and body language open. _You can trust me,_ he thought. _You have to trust me._ Something like wonder blossomed in Wonka's eyes, and the slightest hint of a smile touched his lips. Charlie smiled back, shyly, hoping that his emotions showed clearly in his face. Tentatively, he reached and caught Wonka's other shoulder with his spare hand.

"You don't need to say it," Charlie repeated. "I already know." A brief moment of doubt clouded his certainty, and he glanced down, trembling a little from nervousness. "Or at least I think I do."

"My _dear_ boy," Wonka breathed, reaching cautiously and tilting Charlie's face back up to meet his. "You are almost always right."

And without another word, he leaned forward to touch his lips to Charlie's.

The brim of his top hat collided with Charlie's forehead, almost painfully, and Wonka snarled, reaching up to yank it from his head. Charlie laughed, twining his arms around Wonka's neck, and after a second, the chocolatier chuckled with him, annoyance and amusement mingling in his eyes.

"Should we try that again?" he asked, self-consciously lifting his free hand to smooth his own hair.

In response, Charlie lifted onto his tiptoes and kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, warm and dry, but it ignited the nerves along Charlie's spine all the same. Wonka wrapped his free arm around Charlie's waist, drawing them closer together, and Charlie twined his fingers into Wonka's hair. Wonka's lips moved cautiously against his own, as if he, too, hadn't the faintest idea what he was doing. Charlie smiled into the kiss, relieved beyond measure. For all of the years he'd fantasized about kissing Willy Wonka, part of him had always worried that actually _doing_ it might take some force of strength or bravery too great to manage. What might it take to draw Wonka from behind his walls, to deserve to kiss somebody as stunningly magical as he? But as Wonka's lips fumbled a little against his own, and their noses bumped as they tried to find a better angle, Charlie was reminded, once again, how human Wonka was, despite his best efforts.

They kissed once more, quickly, then pulled away, studying each other with identically relieved expressions. Wonka chuckled softly, a dazed sound, and rested his forehead on Charlie's shoulder. Charlie lifted a hand to stroke his hair, smiling to see the top hat still clenched in Wonka's hand. He realized, in that moment, that he hadn't drawn Wonka out from his walls after all. Rather, he had somehow managed to slip inside them.

"My dear boy," Wonka whispered, lifting his head from Charlie's shoulder and smiling fondly at him. "Do you have any idea how long I've been longing to do that?"

"No," Charlie said, honestly. "I . . . I've loved you for years." Wonka squeezed him closer at those words, and Charlie grinned, leaning into the embrace. "I never imagined you might feel the same way, though," he whispered into the curve of Wonka's neck. "Not once."

Wonka laughed. "That's what I used to think," he confided. "I was sure you'd hate me if you found out."

"I could never hate you!" Charlie protested.

Wonka smiled and kissed him again. Their lips met as softly as they had before, but this time, Charlie knew, at least, that the world wasn't going to drop out from under him just by kissing Willy Wonka. Gathering up his courage, he parted his lips slightly against the other man's, and let the tip of his tongue slip out just far enough to sweep along Wonka's bottom lip. Wonka stiffened beneath him, and Charlie hesitated, unsure whether to apologize or pretend he hadn't done it. But then the mouth beneath his opened, and Wonka's tongue met his, hesitantly, inviting him further inside. Trembling, Charlie explored Wonka's mouth. He'd imagined that Wonka might taste like chocolate, but beneath the lingering taste of oyster stew was something faint and indescribably human. When they finally pulled apart, Wonka's eyes gleamed violet.

"Do you know what made me change my mind?" he whispered into Charlie's ear. With difficulty, Charlie thought back to their earlier conversation, trying to focus his mind on something other than the kiss they'd just shared.

"About my hating you?" he asked. Wonka nodded. "What?" Charlie asked.

Shooting him a mischievous grin, Wonka said, "Your mother."

"Are you serious?!" Charlie gasped, pulling back to study the chocolatier's face.

"Really, it's true," Wonka said, chuckling. His face sobered and in a more serious voice, he said, "That's why she wanted you to leave, Charlie. That's the real reason. She figured out how I felt about you, and she wanted to make sure you got a chance to experience something outside the factory before we . . ." and he gave a nervous giggle.

Charlie frowned, reconsidering his last few months in the light of this new information. "So she knows how I feel about you?" he asked, unsure whether to be mortified or relieved at the thought.

Wonka nodded.

"And . . . and you knew? That I . . . "

"Yeah," Wonka said, a small smile curving his lips. "I did."

"So why did you go along with it?" Charlie asked. "Why were you still planning on sending me back? You're not, are you? Not anymore."

Wonka sighed. "I'm afraid so, my dear boy."

"But why?" Charlie asked.

"Because she was right," Wonka said softly. "You said it yourself."

Charlie sighed, closing his eyes. "I can't stand losing you again," he whispered. "Especially not now."

Tentatively, Wonka reached to embrace him fully, still holding the top hat in one hand. Charlie leaned against his chest, and Wonka kissed the top of his head. "The older you get the faster time moves," he whispered into Charlie's ear. "It sometimes feels like I only just found you. The rest of the year will go quickly, Charlie. You'll see."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another month, another chapter. Sorry about that, guys. I'm trying to get my act together, I really am. In the meantime, I appreciate everybody who's stuck with me. As a small happy note, this chapter now brings the posted sections of DMTH up past the 50,000 word mark. You're all officially reading a novel now! It's the little things that make me happy.
> 
> As always, _multas gratias_ go out to my three fantastic betas, Reibish, Trilliah and Oddmanrush. I'm not sure what I'd do without you guys.

Inspiration for Wonka's Christmas present finally struck on the night before Christmas Eve. Charlie woke, gasping, at some point in the night, still caught in a dream that had been more memory than anything else. He'd stood beside the chocolate river with the other ticket winners, the technicolor chocolate room muted around them to shades of black and white. They'd watched the gondola glide to a halt before them, the Oompa-Loompas laughing at some unknown joke. And Wonka, Wonka had said . . .

Charlie's eyes snapped open and the dream faded into the distance. He clapped his hands to turn on the lights, diving for the notebook on his bedside table before he was even fully awake. He fumbled for a pencil as his brain made the switch from sleep to high productivity, changing gears in a matter of seconds, as he had learned to do while studying with Willy Wonka. Biting his lip as he stared down at the notebook, Charlie drew and re-drew molecular structures, balancing chemical equations along the margins of the pages. Wonka was better at this sort of candy chemistry -- he could do the math in his head. But then, Charlie thought, even as a new idea occurred to him and he altered the molecular chain of the compound just slightly, Wonka had had infinite more practice.

At some point dawn came, but Charlie hardly noticed it. He frowned down at the page, studying the scribbled equations which were beginning, slowly, to make some sense. It would take some work to pull it off by tomorrow, but if he succeeded . . . Charlie smiled, imagining Willy Wonka's face. If he could reproduce even a fraction of the magic that Wonka always inspired in him, then perhaps he could show Wonka exactly what he meant to him. It might even make the chocolatier work up the courage to say the words he couldn't manage in the chocolate room yesterday.

_If he really felt them,_ Charlie thought. He hadn't seen Wonka since they'd kissed the day before. After their picnic, they'd walked together back to Charlie's rooms, and Wonka had left him there with a kiss and a murmured goodbye. He hadn't come to dinner that evening. Could he be regretting it?

Charlie sighed, lifting a finger to his own lips. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember the exact pressure of the chocolatier's lips against his own. The sensation seemed distant now, like a pleasant dream. He wanted to try it again. But if Wonka were avoiding him . . .

A knock on the door interrupted the thought, and Charlie turned to face it, a shiver of excitement racing through him. Could it be Wonka?

"Come in!" he called, even as a part of his brain remarked that it had better not be Wonka, not if Charlie wanted to finish Wonka's Christmas present in time. He snapped his notebook shut just in case. But when the door swung open, it wasn't Willy Wonka who stepped inside.

"Grandma Georgina?" Charlie gasped, hurrying across the room to help his grandmother. She didn't walk very well anymore, even with her shiny purple walker with the Wonka Ws painted on it. He couldn't begin to imagine how she's made it to his room all by herself: Charlie's parents were nowhere in sight.

"Where's Mum?" he asked, leading her to the most comfortable armchair in his sitting room.

Grandma Georgina scowled up at him. "I don't _like_ broccoli!" she protested.

Charlie sighed, running a hand through his hair. "All right," he said. "Do you want some tea then? Hot chocolate?"

She smiled widely, showing that she hadn't put her false teeth in that morning. Charlie patted her hand and stepped across the room to the tiny stove in the corner, rummaging in the cupboard for two mugs and a tin of Wonka's hot chocolate. Grandma Georgina was humming behind him, a Christmas carol, Charlie thought. She was off-tune enough that he couldn't quite tell which one.

"Here you go," Charlie said, handing her a mug of hot chocolate. She smiled dreamily as she lifted it to her mouth, deeply inhaling the scent.

"I always loved the smell of chocolate," she said.

"Me too," Charlie said, settling in the chair across from her. He watched his grandma sip the chocolate, trying to remember the last time he'd talked to her. It had been a long time, he knew. Before he'd left for school, even. Guilt stabbed through his stomach, and he sipped his own hot chocolate to ease it.

"George said he'd visit tomorrow." Grandma Georgina smiled down at her mug. "Mother doesn't like him, you know."

"No?" Charlie said, trying not to wince at the sound of his grandfather's name. Sometimes he suspected that Grandma Georgina had forgotten he was dead. It was probably better that way, he decided. At least she wasn't sad.

"Mother thinks he's a grouch," Grandma Georgina said, laughing. "I like him though. He's got a good heart. Don't you think so?"

"I do," Charlie said, remembering how Grandpa George had convinced him not to sell his Golden Ticket.

"He brought me roses," Grandma Georgina said. "They tasted like cabbage." She sighed, staring across the room. "I love snow," she said wistfully.

Charlie smiled, unsure what to say. "There's snow outside," he said quietly. "Real snow. You'll see it tonight, remember?"

She blinked up at him, clearly confused. "The elevator ride," Charlie said. "It's Christmas Eve."

"Oh!" She laughed, settling back in her chair. "That's my favorite holiday."

"Mine too," Charlie said, smiling.

Someone knocked on the door, and Grandma Georgina started, looking around. "Is the telephone ringing?" she asked.

"It's all right," Charlie said gently. "I've got it."

Standing up, he crossed the room to open the door. Both of his parents stood on the other side, their eyes dark with worry.

"Charlie," Mr. Bucket said, "Have you seen --?" Then he caught sight of Grandma Georgina, and his shoulders slumped in relief. "There she is!" he said. "We looked all over the chocolate room for her."

"Sorry," Charlie said, stepping back to let them inside. "I should have told you she was here."

"Mother," Mrs. Bucket said, "You should have told me that you wanted to visit Charlie. We could have helped you here."

"I haven't got a kitten," Grandma Georgina said, setting down her empty mug.

"I don't know how she managed to leave without our noticing," Mrs. Bucket said, turning back to Charlie. "We thought she was asleep."

"She's gotten a lot worse lately," Mr. Bucket said quietly. A rueful expression crossed his face, and he rubbed his leg. "She kicked me last night," he said.

"She kicked you?" Charlie said, his eyes widening.

Mrs. Bucket shook her head. "She said she thought he was the mailman," she said with a shrug. In a louder voice, she said, "Come on, Mother. Let's go back home and leave Charlie to his work."

"I don't want to," Grandma Georgina said, stubbornly clinging to the arms of her chair. "I came to see Charlie."

"You'll see me tonight," Charlie said. She gave him an empty look, and he smiled reassuringly. "The elevator ride. Remember?"

"Easter!" she said cheerfully, nodding understanding. "You'll find lots of eggs for sure."

Charlie nodded, helping her out of the armchair. She smiled at him, touching his cheek with one wrinkled finger. Her skin was softer than Charlie remembered.

"I love you," she said. "You're the light in my life."

Charlie smiled painfully, forcing back the sudden rush of sadness. "I love you too, Grandma," he said quietly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. He handed her over to his father, and she allowed Mr. Bucket to take her arm.

"Will you be joining us for dinner?" his mother asked.

"Probably not," Charlie said. "I've got some work to get done."

"You and Willy," Mr. Bucket said, shaking his head. "You're both workaholics."

"I like doing it," Charlie said with a shrug.

"We know." His father smiled at him. "So we'll see you tonight then, right?"

"We'll be by around eight," Charlie said.

"All right then," Mr. Bucket said. "It's time we got your grandmother home. We'll see you later, Charlie!"

"Goodbye, darling," Mrs. Bucket said, kissing his cheek.

Charlie walked them to the doorway, then, sighing, he turned back to his notes. The formula seemed workable enough, he decided, studying the few simple, but critical, changes he'd made to the candy's chemical structure. Now it was time to move on to the testing phase. Taking a few minutes to change out of his pajamas and to grab a stick of magic chewing gum for breakfast, he gathered up his notebook and walked to the Great Glass Elevator.

He'd worried that Wonka might be in the inventing room -- how could he work on Wonka's present with Wonka himself around? Fortunately, Charlie's good luck seemed to be holding that day. When he stepped off the elevator into the inventing room, Wonka was nowhere in sight. A quick inquiry to the Oompa-Loompas revealed that he'd spent the whole day in the administration offices, meeting with Doris and a team of Oompa-Loompa legal experts.

Charlie only shook his head, hoping that whatever Wonka was thinking of putting out on the market wasn't too dangerous. They'd had lawsuits threatened against them in the past, but nothing that Wonka's ingenuity and Charlie's luck couldn't handle. Guilty grateful for the chocolatier's absence, he threw himself into the testing phase of the invention, trying batch after batch out on the Oompa-Loompas before he finally managed to get just the right effect. By the time Charlie was finally satisfied with it, it was nearly time for him to meet Willy Wonka.

Stopping quickly by his room to change into some winter clothing, Charlie started towards the hidden staircase leading to Wonka's rooms. They'd arranged to meet here and make their way to the chocolate room together, as they did every year on Christmas Eve. Charlie made his way down the treacherous staircase carefully, exhaling in relief when he finally reached the bottom. Stepping safely away from the dim, steep stairs, he knocked on Wonka's door.

"Come in!" Wonka called from behind it.

Charlie reached for the door handle, surprised to find it unlocked. Stepping inside, he carefully shut the door behind him.

Wonka's sitting room was immaculate, as always, throw pillows piled neatly on the sofa and armchairs, the hardwood floor gleaming, the grandfather clock in the corner freshly dusted. Wonka's hat sat on the shining coffee table, beside a half-finished mug of hot chocolate and a hardcover copy of _Alice in Wonderland_, and his wine-colored jacket was draped over the back of the sofa, but Wonka himself himself was nowhere in sight. Charlie hesitated a second, feeling slightly intrusive, as he did whenever he found himself in alone Wonka's rooms.

"Mr. W- Willy?" he called, shoving his hands into his pockets.

From one of the distant back rooms, Wonka's voice responded, "Back here!"

Charlie crossed the sitting room, stepping into the short corridor beyond it. He knew the layout of Wonka's rooms well, though he'd only been there a handful of times. Immediately beyond the sitting room was Wonka's study, his small personal library (he kept a larger one for the Oompa-Loompas) connected to it. Charlie peered curiously inside, but found no sign of the chocolatier. Across from the study was a closed wooden door that Charlie knew led to Wonka's dining room and kitchen. Charlie ignored those doors -- Wonka rarely sat down for a meal, except with the Bucket family. Charlie traveled further down the short corridor, only to nearly collide with Wonka as the chocolatier emerged from the bedroom, still fastening his cuff links.

"There you are!" Wonka said, catching him by the arm to steady him. Charlie smiled up at him, a little bit shyly, and Wonka's smile deepened. His gloved hand curled diffidently around Charlie's arm. "My dear boy. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Charlie replied, pushing back a twinge of disappointment when Wonka released him. "Are you ready?" he asked

"Almost," Wonka said, reaching for his remaining cuff link. Charlie caught his hand, stopping him. Wonka stared at him for a second, clearly confused. Then understanding blossomed in his eyes, and he smiled nervously. He offered his wrist to Charlie, almost shyly, and Charlie took it, quickly fastening the amethyst cuff link into place.

"It's harder to do by yourself," he said, squeezing Wonka's hand once before pulling away.

Wonka frowned a little, seeming lost in thought. "Yes," he said distantly. "It is."

They walked together back to the sitting room, where Wonka retrieved the top hat from the coffee table, settling it grandly upon his head. He lifted the jacket from the armchair and shrugged into it, then reached for the heavy black overcoat hanging on the coat tree by the door. He gave his reflection a quick glance in the mirror above the fireplace, then turning, gave a dazzling smile to Charlie.

"Shall we go then?"

Charlie nodded, and followed Wonka to the door. But Wonka froze mid-motion as his fingers curled around the door handle.

"Oops," he said. "I almost forgot something."

"Wha-?" Charlie started to say, but Wonka caught his shoulders and pressed him back against the wall. Then Wonka was kissing him, and Charlie forgot about speech altogether. Wonka's lips were warm and soft against his own, a bit less uncertain than they'd been yesterday. Feeling some of his apprehension drain away, Charlie wrapped his arms around Wonka's waist, relaxing into the kiss.

"There," Wonka said, giggling a little as he drew back. "Much better."

Charlie laughed, brushing a strand of hair away from the chocolatier's eyes. He lifted his mouth for another kiss, and Wonka complied, curling his hands around Charlie's shoulders and pushing him more firmly back against the wall. His tongue traced the line of Charlie's lips, almost delicately, and Charlie shivered, blindly parting his lips for more. Wonka only hesitated a second before slipping inside. Charlie shivered, clinging to the chocolatier for balance as Wonka began to map out his mouth with his usual precise attention to detail. He should have known that Willy Wonka would be as good at kissing as he was at almost everything else.

Wonka seemed to be gaining confidence as the kiss progressed. He cupped Charlie's face in his hands, tilting it to a better angle. He nibbled at Charlie's lower lip, then sucked on it gently to ease the sting. For a second he drew back, and Charlie opened his eyes just long enough to glare. Wonka smiled smugly at him, then lowered his head to fasten those sharp teeth on Charlie's throat. Gasping, Charlie closed his eyes, tilting his head back to expose more skin. Wonka nibbled his way up Charlie's throat to his jaw line, lingering for a second there. Then, sighing, he pulled away, shooting an annoyed glare at the grandfather clock in the corner.

"Your family's waiting for us," he said, straightening his hat.

Charlie sighed, squeezing the chocolatier close for a second before reluctantly dropping his arms. "They're not going anywhere," he pointed out.

Wonka laughed, touching Charlie's cheek for a second. "But we wouldn't want them to come looking for us," he said, smiling mischievously.

Charlie rolled his eyes, turning away to study his reflection in the mirror. "I don't think they could find us even if they did," he said. Unlike Charlie, Mr. and Mrs. Bucket had never quite managed the knack of finding their way around the factory without the Great Glass Elevator to guide them. They could make their way to Charlie's room, but for the most part, they preferred to stick to the chocolate room and the immediate surrounding corridors.

Spotting a reddened spot on his throat, Charlie blushed, lifting his hand to probe at it gently. "Do you think they'll notice?" he asked.

Wonka stepped neatly to the hat rack by the door, and pulled a long purple scarf from one of its arms. Charlie recognized it immediately: Grandma Josephine had knitted it for the chocolatier during their first Christmas together at the factory. Wrapping it carefully around Charlie's throat, Wonka smiled in satisfaction, gently tugging at the ends.

"Nope," he said. "They won't notice a thing."

Charlie laughed, ducking his nose to the scarf. It smelled like Wonka, dark chocolate and roasted nuts. "Let's go then," he said. "Since you don't want to keep them waiting."

He opened the door and stepped outside, waiting a second for Wonka to follow and lock the door behind him. The chocolatier offered him his hand, and Charlie took it, lacing his bare fingers with Wonka's gloved ones. But as they neared the chocolate room, Charlie drew away, and Wonka glanced at him from beneath the brim of his top hat.

"We can't hide this from them forever, you know."

"Why not?" Charlie asked. "You're good at keeping secrets."

"Yes," Wonka said, a mysterious smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. "But you're not. Besides," he said. "You don't really want to hide me from your family, do you?"

Charlie hesitated a second, and Wonka gave him a mock-stern glare. "What? Are you ashamed of me? Am I not good enough for you?" He wrinkled his nose, pretending to look offended, and Charlie laughed.

"No! You're perfect!"

He caught Wonka's shoulders and dared to kiss him quickly, even this close to the chocolate room.

"Perfect," Charlie repeated quietly, loving the shy smile that flashed across Wonka's face at the word.

Running a hand down Wonka's arm to his hand, he took it, twining their fingers together again.

"Let's just wait until after Christmas," he said. "Things are so tense already, and I know Mum's going to be upset when she finds out. I don't want to spring this on them now. Just let the holiday get over first."

Wonka smiled gently, and gently touched Charlie's cheek with his free hand. "All right," he said. "After Christmas."

Charlie squeezed his hand once more, than pulled away. They walked together the rest of the short distance to the chocolate room, where they found Charlie's father waiting for them outside the cottage.

"There you boys are!" Mr. Bucket said. "We were getting ready to send out a search expedition." He was wearing a heavy wool overcoat and a knitted cap with ear flaps that tied below his chin. Still smiling, he lifted one mittened hand to wipe the beads of sweat off his forehead. The factory really was too warm for winter clothing.

Charlie smiled tightly, and shrugged. "We got held up," he said.

The cottage door swung open, and Charlie's mother stepped outside, supporting Grandma Georgina by one elbow. They were both bundled up to the ears, especially Grandma Georgina, who was wrapped in so many crocheted shawls, quilts, jackets and caps that only her pale wrinkled face peered out of it, strangely childlike despite the wrinkles.

"It's Christmas Eve," she creaked to Wonka, who was so startled by the actually sensible statement that he smiled broadly and took her arm.

"My dear lady, it is indeed."

She gave him a toothless grin and rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Charlie hid a smile as a faint blush spread over Wonka's cheeks. He rather suspected that his grandmother had a crush on the chocolatier, and Wonka, for his part, always seemed both flattered and bemused by her attention. For a second, Charlie wondered how Grandma Georgina would react if he told her that he'd kissed Willy Wonka. That they were in love with each other. Would she be happy for him, or would she be jealous? Then a rueful smile spread across his face as he acknowledged that Grandma Georgina probably wouldn't even understand his words.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he found his mother looking at him oddly. "What is it?" he asked, drawing the scarf tighter around his throat.

"Are you sure you'll be warm enough, dear?" Mrs. Bucket said.

"Mum!" Charlie said. "I'll be fine!" He'd dressed in fewer layers than the others, but then, he was also more accustomed to the cold, having spent the last three months in the Pacific Northwest.

"Well at least you're wearing a scarf," Mrs. Bucket said, and turning, she fussed once more with the outer layer of quilts wrapped around Grandma Georgina.

"Is everybody ready?" Wonka asked.

"As ready as we're going to be," Mr. Bucket said, taking his wife's hand to stop her from fiddling with the quilts.

Still holding Grandma Georgina's arm, Wonka shot them all a dazzling smile. "All right, then! Let's get this show on the road."

Their annual Christmas Eve elevator ride had started six years earlier, during Charlie's second Christmas at the factory. One December night, Wonka had found Charlie sitting in the highest room of factory, leaning against the window as he stared down at the town below. Covered in snow and lit by Christmas lights, it looked almost beautiful, with no trace of the ugliness that Charlie knew lay beneath it. The tiny lot where the Bucket family once lived was now paved over, replaced by a shopping complex.

"Whatcha doing?" Wonka had asked, dropping down to sit cross-legged beside him.

Charlie jumped, startled. He hadn't heard the chocolatier approach. "Not much," he said nervously. Wonka studied him a second, but didn't respond. They sat together in silence, until finally Charlie started to speak.

"I had a hole in my old bedroom ceiling. Remember?"

Wonka nodded slowly, his lips pressed into a thin line. He'd been horrified to discover it when they moved the Bucket house to the factory. Extra blankets had kept turning up in Charlie's room for months after that, for all that Charlie explained that he didn't need them in the factory's tropical climate.

"Well I used to look out it at the Christmas lights in December," Charlie said, shrugging. "It was the only part of winter that I liked."

"You like Christmas lights?" Wonka had said thoughtfully.

Charlie nodded, a little embarrassed. "Yeah."

"Which ones?" Wonka asked. Charlie shook his head, confused, and Wonka clarified. "The clear ones or the colored ones?"

"Both," Charlie said. He'd smiled, looking out at the lights. "Wouldn't it be great if you could mix them together? Have colored lights that still looked elegant?"

"Yeah," Wonka said, a distant expression on his face. Then he'd shook his head to clear it, and shifted the conversation back to their familiar realm of candy. Charlie had almost forgotten that conversation until Wonka showed up at the Bucket house that Christmas Eve, insisting they all get into their winter coats and follow him out to the Great Glass Elevator.

And so they followed him, that year and every year since then.

This year, Wonka led the way as always, still holding on to Grandma Georgina's arm. Charlie followed him, with Mr. and Mrs. Bucket in the rear. They all filed into the Great Glass Elevator and turned to look at Wonka. But he only smiled, and nodded to Charlie.

"Why don't you do it?"

Charlie hesitated only a second before stepping forward and pressing the up-and-out button.

Mr. and Mrs. Bucket staggered as the elevator rocketed upwards, though Charlie and Wonka both managed to keep their balance, and Wonka's grip on Grandma Georgina kept her from moving. Staring upward, Charlie waited for the elevator to collide with the factory ceiling. He'd never quite figured out why Wonka always insisted on patching the hole in the roof only to punch through it again whenever he wanted to leave the factory, but Charlie had to admit the ride was certainly more fun that way.

The elevator shot upward, nearing the ceiling. Mrs. Bucket grabbed her husband's arm, closing her eyes, and Mr. Bucket winced, chewing on his bottom lip as he watched the distance to the factory roof closing. Grandma Georgina just stared thoughtfully down at the floor of the elevator, as though she didn't even notice it was moving. And Charlie studied Willy Wonka, whose beaming face was tilted upwards, waiting for the inevitable collision.

With a crash, the elevator punched through the factory ceiling, sending bits of metal grill scattering around them. Wonka laughed, as he always did, clapping his hands, and Charlie grinned, leaning back against the wall of the elevator.

"I will never get used to that," Mrs. Bucket breathed, clutching her chest. "I swear, every time I think the elevator is going to shatter. It's only glass."

"Well it's very strong glass," Wonka said with a shrug.

From the air, the town was a dazzle of snow and Christmas lights, crowned by the dark chimneys of the factory. The Bucket family peered out at it, expectantly. Lifting his cane to his mouth, Wonka spoke into the glass bulb at the end of it.

"Switch on the lights!"

All at once, the factory's exterior lit up in a burst of golden light, nearly blinding them all for a second. When the first shock of the glow subsided, they all pressed against the glass walls of the elevator for the rare glimpse of their home from outside.

Lit by Christmas lights, the factory outshone every other light in the town. Thousands and thousands of iridescent twinkling lights climbed the base of each chimney, curling around the gateways and the opening of each loading dock. Each light shimmered like the surface of a bubble, a shifting spectrum of colors lit by a clear white glow.

"It's beautiful," Charlie whispered. In the elevator, with his parents distracted by the light show below, he dared to find Wonka's hand and squeeze it for a second. Wonka smiled down at him. In the iridescent wash of light, his pale skin took on an almost otherworldly cast. He had never seemed so beautiful as in that moment. For a second, Charlie longed to lean forward and kiss him. He could see that desire mirrored in Wonka's eyes as well.

Sighing, Charlie glanced at his parents. Wonka's smile deepened into something resembling a smirk, and he wriggled his eyebrows mischievously. Charlie's eyes drifted shut as Wonka's fingers skirted over the sensitive skin of his palm, electrifying the skin there. When he opened his eyes, he saw his father watching him.

Charlie blushed, dropping Wonka's hand as if burned. but Mr. Bucket only smiled and turned back towards his wife. Below them, the towns people were starting to make their way out of their houses, called by the glow of the factory. This had become tradition for them, too. A few of them spotted the floating elevator and waved.

Charlie waved back, shyly. Wonka studied the sea of faces, but kept his hands firmly clasped behind his back. Mr. and Mrs. Bucket seemed uncomfortable with the attention. They kept swallowing nervously and tugging their clothing into place. But Grandma Georgina didn't seem to notice the people at all. She pressed against the glass, staring at the lit factory with rapt attention.

"I love Christmas," she said. "I wish it could never end."

Mrs. Bucket smiled tightly and patted her shoulder. Wonka just frowned, brainstorming, no doubt, a way to make Christmas last forever. Charlie touched his shoulder.

"Should we go back?" he asked.

But Wonka was lost in thought. He hadn't heard him.

"Wil --" Charlie started, then glancing at his parents, amended it quickly to, "Mr. Wonka?"

Staring down at the factory, as though he didn't quite recognize it, Wonka blinked and turned slowly to Charlie.

"Yeah?"

"Should we go back?" Charlie repeated. Wonka glanced at the Bucket family, and then down at the ever-growing crowd around the factory.

"Sure," Wonka said. "Take us down."

* * *

Back in the chocolate room, the Buckets invited Wonka to stay for tea, but he shook his head.

"No thank you," he said. "I've got an enormous number of things to do before the night is out."

"Even on Christmas Eve?" Mrs. Bucket asked, looking amused.

Wonka nodded seriously. "A chocolatier's job never ends," he said.

"What about you, Charlie?" Mr. Bucket asked.

"No thanks," Charlie said. "I didn't get much sleep last night. It's time I went to bed."

"Well all right," Mrs. Bucket said. "But I expect you both back here bright and early in the morning to open presents. Understood?"

"Yes, Mum," Charlie said, smiling. Wonka tipped his hat to her.

"Goodnight, Mum," he said, kissing his mother quickly. "'Night, Dad."

"Goodnight, Charlie," they told him.

"Goodnight Grandma Georgina," he said, giving her a hug. She clung to him weakly for a moment, and then kissed his cheek.

"Goodnight, Charlie," she whispered. "Happy Christmas."

Charlie kissed her cheek, then pulled away. He turned back to Wonka, who shot him a brilliant smile. "Come on," Wonka said. "I'll walk you to your room."

* * *

When they reached the door to Charlie's rooms, Charlie turned and smiled up at Wonka. "Thank you," he said softly. "The lights were lovely. They always are."

Wonka smiled nervously, seeming a bit put off by the praise. "I like doing it," he said.

"I know."

Charlie studied Wonka's lips for a moment, faintly red against the paleness of his skin. The distance between them seemed wide, suddenly, greatened by some force Charlie could only begin to comprehend. Wonka's hand spasmed suddenly around its cane. Charlie could practically see the walls shifting and re-forming around him. Taking a deep breath, Charlie stepped towards him, catching hold of his shoulders and rising onto his toes to kiss him. Wonka's eyes shone with relief. He wrapped his arms around Charlie, welcoming the kiss.

By the time Charlie came to his senses enough to think again, they were pressed against the doorway to his room and Wonka's lips were ghosting along his ear. He pulled away slightly, dazed, and Wonka released him at once, stepping back a safe distance to study him. Wonka's eyes were dark in the dim light of the corridor, his pupils huge and rimmed only faintly with purple. His gloved hands lingered on the small of Charlie's back.

Charlie hesitated. He wanted, suddenly, to invite Wonka inside, although he had no idea what might happen if he did. It seemed silly, almost puerile, to keep stealing kisses in the corridors when both of them had sofas, armchairs, beds . . .

Closing his eyes, he took a shuddering breath, trying to draw in courage. But as he glanced up at Wonka, the chocolatier was already pulling away.

"I should go," Wonka said softly.

Charlie nodded dimly. "Yeah," he said distantly. "You probably should."

Smiling wistfully, the chocolatier leaned forward and kissed Charlie quickly. "Good night, Charlie," he said softly. "Merry Christmas."

Charlie smiled back, reading for the doorway. "Merry Christmas, Willy."

* * *

The next morning, Charlie woke early enough to wrap Wonka's Christmas present and slide it carefully into his pocket. Gathering up his more mundane presents for his family, he started towards the chocolate room to meet them all. As he walked, it occurred to him that he'd better give Wonka his present in private. Oh well, Charlie thought. It would be more fun that way.

He arrived at the cottage to find Wonka already there, sipping hot chocolate with his parents and chatting quietly with them. He smiled when Charlie stepped into the room, and Charlie smiled back, closing his hand around the present in his pocket.

"Merry Christmas everybody," Charlie said quietly.

"Merry Christmas," they responded.

"Where's Grandma Georgina?" Charlie asked, looking around the room.

"We thought we'd let her sleep in," his mother said. "She went to bed in her own room for once. Why don't you wake her up, darling?"

Charlie obediently started towards his grandma's door. Knocking gently on it, he swung it open and stuck his head inside.

"Grandma Georgina?"

She lay still on the bed, the quilts pulled up to her chin. Stepping into the room, Charlie spoke a little louder. Her hearing had gotten worse over the last few years.

"Grandma! Wake up! It's Christmas!"

But she didn't move. A knot of worry tightened in Charlie's stomach, but he willed it away.

"Grandma?" he said softly, stepping towards the bed. She lay there like a mummy, swathed in blankets, a cap on her head and the quilts rolled around her. On the night stand, a picture of Grandpa George stared out at him.

"Grandma," Charlie said again, reaching to touch her hand. It was cold.

He backed away from the bed, his eyes filling up with tears.

From the doorway, his mother said, "Charlie? What is it?" Then she caught sight of Grandma Georgina, and her eyes welled up with tears. "Oh no," she whispered. "Mother . . ."

Charlie bolted past her and into the living room where his father and Wonka still sat. Wonka stood up immediately on seeing Charlie's expression, setting his cup to the side. His father, too, stared at him, sudden worry in his face.

"What is it, Charlie?" his father asked. But Charlie ignored him. Shaking his head, he crossed the room to where Wonka had risen. The chocolatier's face drained of color, and he opened his arms without a word. Charlie collapsed into them, feeling Wonka's arms close comfortingly around him.

"She . . . she's gone," he whispered into Wonka's silk shirt.

Wonka's arms tightened around him. The chocolatier was shaking in his grip. "I'm sorry," Wonka whispered, kissing the top of Charlie's head.

Mr. Bucket stepped up behind him, laying a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Oh Charlie," he breathed.

Charlie pulled his face away from Wonka's chest and glanced at his father. His mother had come up behind him, and they were clinging to each other. Wordlessly, Charlie removed one arm from Wonka's waist and held it out to his parents.

Wonka stiffened and started to pull away, but Charlie held him fast. His parents stepped to either side of them, each wrapping an arm around both of their waists. After a moment, Wonka carefully removed one arm from Charlie's waist and wrapped it instead around Mr. Bucket, who stood beside him. For the longest time, they all held each other, while the lights of the Christmas tree danced, iridescent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to follow book canon with this story and make Grandma Georgina Mrs. Bucket's mother, not Mr. Bucket's. Sorry if that threw anyone off! I like to use book canon whenever it doesn't outright contradict the movie, and personally, I think Mr. Bucket might call his father-in-law "Pops."
> 
> Grandma Georgina kicking Mr. Bucket? You can blame that one on Oddmanrush.
> 
> As always, feedback of any sort is appreciated. I very much appreciate everybody who's stayed with me while I tried to get my act in gear these last few chapters. Thank you all for reading.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my three fabulous betas for their help, ideas, support, and occasional threats. Reibish, Trilliah, and Oddmanrush you guys mean the world to me!
> 
> A special thanks also goes out to Idol Hands for all of their encouragement with this chapter.

"The Lord is compassionate and gracious," said the Reverend Richard Hewitt, trying not to fidget with his prayer book as he looked out over the mourners, few as they were. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so nervous speaking at a funeral. Normally, the Reverend Hewitt rather liked funerals. He liked their understated solemnity and their mingled tones of grief and hope. His colleagues said he had a good hand with the bereaved. But then, this funeral was rather different from most. It wasn't every day one spoke at the Wonka chocolate factory, after all.

Hewitt didn't mind the factory in and of itself -- if you _had_ to hold a funeral in a chocolate factory, Wonka's was the best in the world. Hewitt had prepared himself to speak inside a room filled with machinery and conveyer belts. He hadn't even wanted to think about what they might do with the corpse. But when Charlie Bucket, their hometown hero and probably the luckiest boy in the whole world, had met Hewitt at the gate that morning, he'd led him instead through a maze of gleaming corridors and down a million flights of stairs. Finally, the youth had stopped before an elaborate wrought iron gate fashioned into twining vines and twisting Ws. A brass plaque beside the door read, "Mortal Coil Room." Smiling nervously, the youth had pulled an enormous key ring from his pocket.

_I'm sorry about all the stairs,_ he'd said, unlocking the gate with an apologetic shrug. _"There are easier ways to get here, but you didn't seem to like them much before."_

Before? Hewitt had started to ask what Charlie meant, but then they'd stepped into the room beyond the gate, and shock drove the question from his mind. The mortal coil room was nearly as large as the city's cemetery. It's floor was entirely covered with grass, which shivered slightly in the faint breeze blowing in from the air vents on the ceiling. A gravel path led to a cluster of willow trees. Four gravestones stood there. Grass covered the ground before three of them; the fourth stood before a gaping hole, no doubt waiting to be filled by the coffin which sat on a curiously low table nearby. Incongruously, a gleaming pulpit stood near the grave site, with hundreds of tiny chairs and four regular-sized chairs arranged around it. Catching sight of the Reverend's expression, Charlie had smiled grimly.

"That's real grass," he'd said softly, pointing at the ground. "And that's real dirt beneath it. All of the trees are real too. There's nothing eatable in this room, I'm afraid." Then a reluctant smile had crossed his face, and he'd amended it to, "Well, nothing that you'd _want_ to eat anyway."

Hewitt couldn't begin to guess what the youth meant by that, but he had to admit that this room was the perfect location for an indoor cemetery. From the softly rippling grass to the grey ceiling cloaked by an illusion of clouds, the room radiated serenity. Even the gravestones seemed to belong there. So no, Hewitt had no problem with the factory itself. Nor did he mind the mourners, exactly, strange as they were.

Willy Wonka, in particular, was hard not to stare at. It wasn't every day one met the world's most famous chocolatier, after all. Wonka had been even stranger than Hewitt had expected. He wore full Victorian mourning attire: a black tailed suit with a black jacquard waistcoat over a black shirt. A black silk cravat was tied around his throat, adorned with an understated pin shaped like a W. The dark colors only emphasized the unearthly pallour of his skin. Wonka didn't wear that famous top hat -- in deference to the funeral, he'd set it on the chair beside him -- but even his unusual haircut was worth gawking at. He'd greeted Hewitt with a distracted hello that morning, and ignored his offer of a handshake. Now he sat quietly through the Reverend's sermon, his gaze fixed on the empty air above Hewitt's head and his mind obviously a million miles away.

Compared to Wonka, the Bucket family seemed almost normal. The solemn young man who'd guided Hewitt to the mortal coil room sat beside the chocolatier. He too wore black, although his suit was cut a bit smore modernly than Wonka's Victorian one. He sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap, nodding in the right places and looking thoughtful. A good boy, a polite boy, Hewitt thought. His own grandchildren could learn a thing or two from him. Charlie, too, had grown pale from his years inside the factory, though not quite so pale as Wonka. His hair was darker than Wonka's, cut short and neat. Beside Charlie sat his parents, both dressed in black and drawn from grief. Mrs. Bucket wept quietly, holding her husband's hand and dabbing at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. Mr. Bucket's face was troubled, almost distracted. With their dark clothes and pale skin, all four of them, Hewitt thought, looked like plants uprooted from the sun and left in the darkness to wilt.

Vaguely troubled by that thought, the Reverend Hewitt reminded himself that, however strange, this family still grieved as others did. They could still perhaps find some consolation, however meager, in his words. With that thought, he brought his mind back to his sermon, which he'd been speaking on autopilot these last few minutes.

"As a father has compassion on his children," Hewitt said, "so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we were formed; he remembers that we are dust."

Wonka winced at that, glancing down at the ground, and beside him, Charlie laid a hand on his arm. The chocolatier turned to study the youth and, smiling sadly, wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders, drawing him close against his side. Touching, really, to see them trying to comfort each other. Yet there was something in the motion, in the easy familiarity of Wonka's gloved fingers curled around the boy's shoulder, the way Charlie leaned ever so slightly into the touch, that made Hewitt frown in suspicion.

Surely they couldn't -- Wonka had to be at least twice the boy's age, perhaps even more, if some of the stories about him were true! Hewitt had attended the opening of this factory fifteen years ago. He'd watched Willy Wonka cut the red ribbon from the gate. The man hadn't aged at all in all these years. It was worrisome, really, to see his unlined face, to hear that vaguely childish voice. Unnatural. And yet, Wonka had a surprising beauty to him, in the surprising tint of his lips and the violet gleam of his eyes . . . Hewitt turned his thoughts away from that rather forcibly. _Judge not lest ye be judged,_ he told himself, glancing away from Wonka and the Buckets. Besides, strange as they were, Wonka and the Buckets were the least of his worries.

No, what really bothered Hewitt were the midgets.

There were hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, all dressed identically in black suits or black dresses (other than that, the men and women looked the same) and all wearing identical frowns. They stared at Hewitt as though _he_ were the oddity, shifting slightly in their seats and whispering to each other now and then.

Trying very hard not to be unnerved, Reverend Hewitt continued with his sermon. "It has pleased the Almighty God to take from this world the soul of Georgina here departed. We now commit her body to the grave; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . ."

At this, eight of the midgets solemnly stepped forward, lifting the coffin from the table and lowering it carefully down into the grave. Trying not to stare, Hewitt desperately turned his gaze towards the human mourners. Mr. and Mrs. Bucket released each other's hands. Leaning down, they each caught up a handful of dirt and tossed it into the grave atop the coffin. Seeming troubled, young Charlie drew away from Wonka to follow suit. Only the chocolatier remained in place, his gaze focused not on the grave, but rather somewhere overhead, as though he'd found something to contemplate in the room's ceiling. He hardly seemed aware of funeral at all. Yet when Charlie returned to his side, he wrapped an arm around the boy's waist automatically. Mrs. Bucket had broken into a fresh burst of tears, burying her face in her husband's shoulder.

"Let us pray," said the Reverend, relieved that the funeral was nearly over. The Buckets resignedly lowered their heads. Wonka and the midgets did not. Trying to keep his voice steady, the Reverend Hewitt began the final prayer, finally ending with, "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with us all evermore. Amen."

"Amen," the Buckets echoed, and lifted their heads. The Reverend Hewitt cast a wary glance over their heads, to where the midgets studied him with stone-faced speculation. Swallowing, he stepped from behind the pulpit.

A moment of awkwardness followed. Wonka and the Buckets glanced at each other. The midgets had already risen from their seats, which they began to fold and carry out of the room with near mechanical precision. After a second, Mrs. Bucket wiped the tears from her face with a lace-edged handkerchief. Stepping forward, and took the Reverend's hand.

"We really can't thank you enough for coming," she said.

Relieved to be back on familiar territory, the Reverend Hewitt patted her hand. "It was no trouble at all, madam, let me assure you. It is my joy and duty in the Lord to attend to all of the mourners in my parish . . . even the ones who don't attend church."

A momentary shadow crossed her face, but quickly faded. Her husband had now joined them, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, easing the sting of the chide, gentle as it had been "Well we appreciate it," he said.

Mrs. Bucket nodded. "This would have made her happy," she said softly, glancing back towards the grave. The midgets were busy over it. They'd already filled in the rest of the dirt, and had begun sprinkling some sort of seed over it. Others were carefully wheeling the pulpit out of the room. "Thank you for being willing to come to the factory on such short notice," she said. "I'm sure this must all seem very strange to you."

Smiling faintly, the Reverend said, "Well _that_ was hardly a trouble, madam. I think every man in town would give his eyeteeth for a look inside the Wonka chocolate factory. Why, I know my grandchildren will be begging me to tell them all about it!"

"Oh will they?" a deceptively smooth voice spoke. Hewitt turned, again knocked off balance: the famous Willy Wonka had stepped silently forward to meet them, and stood there now like a shadow, dressed in black, young Charlie hovering behind him like a younger, more solemn shade.

"Y-yes," Hewitt stammered, suddenly nervous.

Wonka gave him a beautific smile, teeth gleaming. "Then you must tell them all about it!" he said. "Would you like to see some more?"

Hewitt could only nod and follow as Wonka started down the cobblestone path. Summoning Charlie with a glance, the chocolatier began to speak.

"This room is only one of the subterranean naturaspeculum rooms in my factory," he said. "It's relatively small, all things considered. Just a tiny closet compared to this!" Wonka had stopped beneath a set of doors. A sign to the right of them read, "Cacao Room." Taking a key ring from his pocket, he selected a tiny key and stuck it into a slot beneath the sign, giving the key a quarter turn. At once, the doors slid open. Pocketing the key ring, Wonka motioned him to follow him.

Hewitt gasped as they stepped inside, not only from the size of the room, which dwarfed the other in comparison, but from the wave of humidity that threatened to overwhelm him. They'd stepped into a sort of rainforest. Trees grew all around them, hiding the ceiling with their canopy. Tropical flowers bloomed everywhere. Birdsong filled the sky. Glancing dizzily upwards, Hewitt saw something that looked like treehouses dotting the trunks high above. There were more of the midgets here; they moved efficiently from tree to tree, watering them, examining the bark, and harvesting beans nearly the size of their heads.

Speechless, Hewitt turned dazedly to Charlie. The youth smiled nervously at him.

"This is where we grow our cocao beans," he said.

Wonka nodded, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's far more efficient to grow our own," he agreed.

"And the . . . the . . .?" Unable to manage proper speech, Hewitt simply pointed towards the midgets. Wonka beamed.

"Oompa-Loompas," he said. "Imported, direct from Loompa-Land. Aren't they magnificent? I'll have you know they're on their best behavior today. Normally they can be rather mischievous. Come along."

Wonka started down a jungle path, his boots and his cane crunching softly in the carpet of leaves. Casting a sympathetic glance at Hewitt, Charlie nodded that they should follow. Wonka led them down a twisting path, turning his gaze right and left, as though he were searching for something. Charlie's eyes suddenly widened, and he stepped forward.

"Willy!" he warned, but it was too late.

Wonka smacked right into an invisible something and fell backwards, landing in the leaves with a muffled thump. Shaking his head, Charlie hurried forward to help him up, retrieving his hat from the ground. Rubbing his eyes, Hewitt stared at the thing Wonka had hit. It was a glass box, he realized, lined with buttons, and nearly invisible in the filtered light that reached the jungle floor. Why, Hewitt thought, it looked almost like . . .

"My word, is that an elevator?"

"It sure is," Wonka said, adjusting his hat with a forced giggle. He pushed a button on the contraption, and a door slid open. Stepping inside, he motioned Hewitt and the boy to join him. Charlie cast Wonka a troubled glance, but didn't say anything. Smiling widely at Hewitt, Wonka shut the door.

"This just isn't an ordinary up-and-down elevator, by the way," Wonka said smugly. "It can go sideways and slantways and any other way you can think of."

Uncertain how to respond to that, Hewitt simply nodded, wide-eyed. Wonka beamed at him, and pushed a button. The elevator slammed suddenly sideways, and Hewitt scrambled for something to keep his grip. Touching his arm lightly, Charlie pointed to some nearly invisible straps hanging from the ceiling. Catching hold of one, Hewitt bit his lip and prayed for dear life as the elevator spun, repositioned itself, and rocketed upwards at a sideways slant. Why this was just like those dreadful amusement park rides his grandchildren loved. Wonka and Charlie must love it too: they hadn't even bothered to grab ahold of the straps. The elevator suddenly changed its mind and shot backwards. Thinking he was going to be sick, Hewitt pressed his face against the glass and whimpered slightly.

Fortunately, the ride proved as short as it was torturous. The elevator drew to a halt outside the carpet-lined corridor Hewitt reminded seeing just inside the factory door as Charlie led him inside this morning. The doors opened with a ping, and Hewitt staggered forward, dropping to his knees on the thick carpet.

"I told you," Charlie was saying to Wonka. "He gets motion sickness."

And how on earth could the boy know that?, Hewitt wondered, closing his eyes. The tip of Wonka's cane prodded him gently in the ribs.

"Come on now, get up," Wonka said cheerfully. "It was just a little elevator ride, nothing to get upset about."

Opening his eyes, Hewitt swallowed, and climbed shakily to his feet. Examining his face, Wonka tutted and shook his head.

"Oh dear," he said. "You do look green. Here, try this!" From his pocket, he took a small peppermint and pressed it into Hewitt's hand.

Unwrapping it shakily, the Reverend popped it into his mouth. The cool minty flavor slid over his tongue, and as he sucked, he felt it easing the nausea in his stomach.

"Oh my," he managed, as the sickness left him.

Wonka grinned. "That was a memento mint!" he said. "With a swirl of Wonka's Magic Stomach Soother, just for you. I modified the formula after your last visit."

"My last?" Hewitt said, shaking his head. Wonka was leading him down the carpeted corridor. Hewitt frowned as he glanced around, trying to decide why it looked so familiar. He'd only been here once, this morning. Or had he? Looking about again, Hewitt realized that the trace of familiarity was gone. It must have been some other corridor he was thinking of.

The man in front of him opened a door, and Hewitt looked out onto the street running by the Wonka factory. Relieved to be on familiar ground, the Reverend stepped forward at once. Glancing back, he studied the pair lingering in the doorway behind him. With their old fashioned suits and the one's top hat, they looked like two throwbacks from the Victorian era.

"I'm sorry," Hewitt said, touching his hat. "Do I know you?"

"No," said the one in the hat. "I'm afraid not."

Shrugging, Hewitt simply nodded at them, and started down the street towards home.

* * *

Charlie frowned as the door fell shut behind the Reverend. Feeling hollow inside, he reached to turn the deadbolt and re-activate the security system around that entrance.

"I hate doing that," he said softly, turning to Wonka.

The chocolatier studied him for a long moment, then smiling sadly and touched his arm. "That's because you're a good nut, my boy." He started back down the corridor towards the elevator, and Charlie automatically followed along behind him.

"He seemed like a nice man," Charlie said. "It might not have done any harm to let him remember."

"Maybe not," Wonka conceded with a small nod. "But what about anybody he might tell? We can't take chances like that Charlie, not with the factory. They have their world outside, and we have ours. There can't be any crossing over."

"You let me in," Charlie reminded him. "And the other ticket winners."

Drawing to a halt, Wonka turned to study him for a long moment, a slight smile playing around the corners of his lips. Finally, he reached to touch Charlie's face, drawing two gloved fingers down his cheek. Charlie shivered at the touch: for the funeral, Wonka had traded his usual violet latex gloves in for a pair of black leather ones that felt cool and smooth against his skin.

"_You_ were a special case," Wonka said, giving Charlie's cheek one final caress before pulling away. "A very special case."

Touched, Charlie simply nodded, and allowed Wonka to take his hand as they started back down the corridor. "Come on," Wonka said softly, as if he too wanted to change the subject. "We should meet your parents."

* * *  
Mr. and Mrs. Bucket had already reached the chocolate room by the time Charlie and Wonka got there. Still dressed in their funeral clothes, they sat on the swudge by the river, watching the melted chocolate flow by. When Charlie and Wonka joined them on the ground, Mrs. Bucket smiled sadly, and Mr. Bucket sighed, twirling a blade of swudge between his fingers.

"Well at least the funeral's over," he said softly.

"Mother would have appreciated it," Mrs. Bucket said. "She used to love church, when she still had her wits about her. You remember that, don't you darling?"

"Yes," Mr. Bucket said wryly. Charlie forced a smile, but it must not have been convincing enough. His mother frowned at him, then reached to touch his hand.

"How are you holding up, darling?" she asked.

"I'm fine," Charlie said softly, inwardly wincing at how true that was. He felt curiously empty inside, devoid of the tears he'd remembered shedding at the other grandparents' funerals. Through the corner of his eye, Charlie watched his mother and Wonka exchange glances. Then Wonka scooted closer to him, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders without a word.

Sighing, Charlie leaned against the chocolatier, ignoring, for once, the nearby presence of his parents. He knew they'd turn a blind eye to Wonka's attempts at comforting him. And it was comforting, for the moment, just to be near Wonka, to rest against Wonka's chest and inhale his familiar scent. And if it felt wrong, somehow, to accept this comfort under false pretenses . . . well, Charlie could add this guilt to the other. They'd had little opportunity to be close like this during the last few days, with the business of the funeral piling up around him. Now, with Grandma Georgina buried and the preacher already forgetting that he'd buried her, it felt like life could finally, maybe, start to resume again.

"We'll have to start the year-end paperwork tomorrow," Wonka said, as if reading his mind.

Charlie nodded, not looking forward to the task. They'd fallen dreadfully behind while planning for the funeral.

"You two, always working," Mrs. Bucket said softly, a fond smile on her face. "Are you coming for dinner tonight?"

Charlie glanced at Wonka for confirmation before shaking his head. He couldn't imagine eating.

Mrs. Bucket nodded, as though she'd expected that answer. "All right," she said. "But make sure you eat something -- and not that chewing gum, either," she said, before Wonka could open his mouth. "It's important to eat, especially at times like this."

Charlie frowned, and nodded against the soft velvet of Wonka's jacket. Wonka's gloved fingers gently stroked Charlie's shoulder through his suit. Mrs. Bucket studied them for a long moment, something troubled in her eyes.

"Don't you boys have something you want to tell us?" she finally asked.

Charlie pulled away from Wonka faster than he would have thought possible. He felt his neck and ears grow hot, and glancing back at the chocolatier, saw an expression of panic on Wonka's face that had to mirror the one on his own. Mr. Bucket had leaned forward and was watching them quietly.

"Well you see," Wonka said, looking helplessly at Charlie.

"Mum," Charlie stammered, "We . . . um . . ."

Mrs. Bucket sighed, an expression of weary disappointment settling across her face. "I thought so."

Beside her, Mr. Bucket merely nodded at them. "Congratulations," he said softly. "I'm happy for you both."

"Thank you," Wonka said softly, daring to rest one hand upon Charlie's. Too shocked to speak, Charlie could only nod. Nervously, he glanced back to his mother.,

Mrs. Bucket frowned and looked down at a nearby patch of candy teacups. She silently picked one and turned it around and around in her hands before glancing back up at them. Looking at Wonka, she said, "I really would have preferred you waited a year. But I suppose what's done is done." Sipping from her cup, she asked, "So what happens now?"

"I'm going back to school, Mum," Charlie said softly, a little bit pained by the words. "In a week, just like we planned."

"Well that's good," Mrs. Bucket said. "That's very sensible of you, darling." And then, she turned back to Wonka, who'd been trying to make himself seem as small as possible against the trunk of the willow tree he was leaning on.

"Willy," she said softly. "You know that Mr. Bucket and I have always thought of you as family." Mr. Bucket nodded firmly, emphasizing her words. "I suppose now it can be official," she said.

"Really?" Wonka said, daring a glance at her. "You're not mad?"

She sighed, leaning back against the swudge. "I'm a bit disappointed," she admitted. "But really I'm proud of you both. You're good for each other. Grandma Georgina would be happy to see you like this."

"Thanks, Mum," Charlie whispered, smiling painfully.

Wonka nodded silently, and tipped his hat in her direction.

Mrs. Bucket smiled awkwardly, and sipped again from her teacup. "Well tomorrow," she said, "you both _are_ coming to dinner. We need to celebrate Christmas."

Charlie hesitated; it felt vaguely wrong to celebrate Christmas the day after Grandma Georgina's funeral. But his father nodded.

"Your mum is right," he said. "We need to remember that we're still alive. Grandma Georgina wouldn't have wanted us to miss Christmas."

Charlie glanced at Wonka, and the chocolatier nodded his agreement.

"All right," Charlie said softly.

Mr. Bucket nodded firmly. "Good," he said.

Mrs. Bucket glanced at the sky, and then climbed slowly to her feet. "Well _we_ should go eat dinner," she said. "Are you boys sure you won't join us?"

"Yes," Wonka answered for them both, tightening his grip around Charlie's shoulders.

Mrs. Bucket smiled. Leaning close, she kissed Charlie on the cheek, and then embarrassed Wonka by doing the same to him. He turned beet red, glancing away, then quickly back again. Mrs. Bucket held his gaze for a long, long moment, then smiled.

"Thank you," she murmured, "for taking care of my son."

Then she stepped back and took her husband's arm. "Goodbye, darlings. We'll see you tomorrow."

Mr. Bucket waved goodbye, and they started down the path towards the cottage, disappearing around the slope of hill. Save for the handful of Oompa-Loompas cleaning the intake pipes and trimming the candy hedges, Wonka and Charlie were alone.

Charlie turned uncertainly to Wonka. The chocolatier studied him for a long moment, then wordlessly brought Charlie closer to him, cradling him against his chest.

"How are you?" Wonka murmured in his ear.

Charlie winced. He couldn't bring himself to lie to Wonka. "I'm fine," he said hollowly.

Wonka pulled back, studying him through clearly suspicious eyes. Miserable, Charlie glanced away, not wanting to see Wonka's eyes darken when he confessed.

"I . . . I'm not really sad anymore," he said softly. "In a way, I'm almost relieved that she's gone. She always seemed so lonely without the others." He sighed and shook his head. "Do you think I'm a horrible person?" he asked.

Wonka didn't answer.

Taking a deep breath, Charlie opened his eyes, afraid of what he'd see on Wonka's face. But instead of dark disappointment, Wonka's eyes glowed nearly blue with compassion. He caught Charlie's gaze and held it. Touching his gloved fingers to Charlie's chin, he tilted his face up.

"Charlie," he said, "you couldn't be horrible if you tried."

Tears stung Charlie's eyes, and he tried to look away, embarrassed. Wonka held his face in place, though, and leaning forward, he kissed Charlie's forehead, then each cheek.

"You loved her," he whispered into Charlie's ear. "You loved her enough to want what's best for her, and not yourself."

Charlie shuddered. Weeping quietly, he pressed himself forward, against Wonka's chest. The chocolatier released his face and wrapped his arms around him instead, holding him close.

"She came to visit me on Christmas Eve," Charlie said between his sobs, choking the words into the curve of Wonka's throat, where he knew they were safe. "I . . . I didn't spend much time with her. I was working on your Christmas present and I had so many things to do that I was kind of annoyed to see her. She died that night. I think she was trying to say goodbye and I . . . I didn't even pay attention. I hardly saw her at all since I came back."

Wonka's arms tightened around his shoulders. "Charlie," he said firmly, "this year, your grandma was so out to lunch that I don't think she knew who was in the room with her and who wasn't. You could have spent this whole month at her bedside and she might not have noticed. But she knew you loved her. When the time came, I think she wanted you to know that. That's probably why she visited you. Just seeing your face probably made her happy. It would make me happy."

Charlie snorted a little, and Wonka's voice took on an offended note. "It's true! Ask the Oompa-Loompas if you don't believe me. I haven't been myself while you were gone."

"They did sing something about that," Charlie said, smiling reluctantly. "You banged your head on a wall?"

"Just a little concussion," Wonka said. "But my point is that you made your grandma happy. That's what she'd want you to remember. 'Kay?"

Charlie sniffled a little, lifting his head from Wonka's shoulder. Looking into Wonka's face, he nodded tremulously.

"That's my boy," Wonka murmured. Leaning forward carefully, to keep the top hat from slipping, he kissed Charlie gently on the lips.

He'd clearly intended the kiss to be a chaste one, but when he pulled away, Charlie followed him, lifting his face for another. They kissed again, and then again, soft, quick kisses, faintly clinging. Wonka's lips tasted salty from Charlie's tears. They hadn't kissed since Grandma Georgina died, and though it felt slightly wrong to be doing so now, on the day of her funeral, the relief Charlie felt at finally touching Wonka again entirely overshadowed the guilt.

"I've missed doing this," Charlie whispered between kisses. Wonka drew him closer, holding Charlie as if he might break.

"Me too."

"Let's not ever stop again," Charlie said. "No matter what happens. Dad was right: we need to remember that we're still alive."

"Your dad's a smart guy," Wonka said, and kissed him again. They pressed together for a long moment, drawing what comfort they could from each other. The next time they pulled apart, Charlie leaned back to study Wonka.

"How are _you_ doing?" he asked. "You haven't said much today."

Wonka sighed, looking uncomfortable. "I liked your grandma," he said, shrugging. "I'm going to miss that old woman a lot."

Charlie nodded, touching Wonka's arm. "I will too," he said truthfully. "But at least she's with the others now. I think she started missing them more towards the end." He closed his eyes, remembering how confused his grandma had been since Grandpa George had died. "I hope I don't get like that when I'm old," he said softly.

"You won't," Wonka replied, a little distantly.

"I won't get confused?" Charlie asked, glancing up at him.

Wonka smiled, and shook his head. "You won't get old," he said. "I would never allow it."

Charlie swallowed, searching Wonka's face in the shadows of the willow tree. The chocolatier looked completely serious. "You won't?" Charlie asked softly, trying to turn the words into a joke.

"Who would help me run the factory?" Wonka said with a shrug.

"You said that you wouldn't waste Wonka-Vite on yourself," Charlie said softly, watching Wonka's face for a reaction. The chocolatier's eyes were impassive. "You said that it was far too precious."

"I lied," Wonka said with a shrug. "You must've guessed that by now, my boy."

Charlie swallowed, glancing away for a second. "I'd suspected," he said. Summoning his courage, he glanced back at Wonka, and finally dared to ask a question he'd been wondering for years. "How old are you?"

"I'm sorry, Charlie," Wonka said, "I'm afraid I'm slightly deaf in that ear. You'll have to speak a little louder."

"Will you stop that!?" Charlie laughed, pushing Wonka's shoulders playfully. Wonka pushed back, slightly harder than he had, and Charlie fell backwards onto the swudge. Reaching up, he caught hold of Wonka's jacket, pulling the chocolatier down to lie on the grass beside him. "Someday you'll have to trust me enough to tell me these things," Charlie said.

"I do trust you, Charlie. It isn't that." Wonka sighed, taking off his top hat and setting it on the ground beside them. "I'm old," he whispered, unable to meet Charlie's eyes. "To tell you the truth, Charlie, I'm not even sure I can remember how old I am."

"Are you older than my parents?" Charlie asked, reaching to run his fingers through Wonka's hair.

A wry smile touched the chocolatier's lips, but he didn't say anything. Charlie frowned, still stroking Wonka's hair. There wasn't a single strand of gray in it now, for all he'd claimed that was the reason he'd searched for an heir in the first place.

"Are you old enough to be my grandfather?" Charlie asked. His stomach clench at his own daring, but he needed to know the answer.

Wonka swallowed. A moment of hesitation. He met Charlie's gaze, eyes indigo in the dimming light of the chocolate room. In a single motion, he nodded.

Charlie closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. He'd long suspected that Wonka was far older than he looked -- why Wonka himself had hinted at it more than once -- but somehow _knowing_ so made all the difference. He had a thousand questions in his mind. If Wonka were that old, how to explain Wonka's father, who still seemed as healthy (and as dour) as ever? And for that matter, why did Wonka need an heir in the first place? When did he start taking Wonka-Vite? Why did he feel the need to lie about it? The questions crowded together in his brain, but in the end, he didn't ask any of them.

"I see," he said softly. When he opened his eyes again, Wonka was watching him nervously.

"Does that bother you?" Wonka asked.

For a moment, Charlie could only shake his head, unable to speak. His emotions felt just as jumbled as his thoughts. He could only name a few of them. Shock. Wonder. Disbelief. Maybe just the faintest touch of fear. But through the massive tangle of emotions, one in particular glowed brightly, casting all of the rest into shadow.

"I love you," Charlie said, focusing on that. "It will take me awhile to get used to this, but it doesn't really change anything. You're the same person you've always been. You're the same person I fell in love with. Nothing's ever going to change that. I love you for who you are. That's the only thing that really matters to me."

Wonka's expression didn't change, but his eyes glowed at the words. Silently, he wrapped his arms around Charlie, drawing him close.

"Thank you," Wonka whispered, almost too quiet to hear. Charlie returned the embrace, pressing his face into Wonka's shoulder. After a long, long moment, Wonka pulled away, smiling awkwardly.

"It's still early," he said. "There's lots of work we could be getting done. Want to go to the inventing room for awhile?"

Charlie nodded, recognizing Wonka's need to establish some space between them again. "Sure," he said.

* * *   
The next day passed in a series of uneventful chores. It seemed like hundreds of things needed Wonka's personal attention each and every day inside the factory, and too many of them had piled up during Grandma Georgina's funeral. Charlie just felt grateful that he was there to help the chocolatier through it -- he suspected even Wonka might have been overwhelmed on his own.

Charlie was so busy that he barely had time to think about the fact that they'd be celebrating Christmas later that evening . . . at least, not until Wonka dropped into their office and sat on the corner of Charlie's desk.

Glancing up from the expense report he'd been signing, Charlie rubbed his temples and smiled. "Hi."

The chocolatier simply frowned down at him. Thoughtfully, he brought his own gloved finger to his mouth and licked it. Leaned forward and he trailed the finger in a slow line down Charlie's face. Charlie's heart suddenly thudded in his chest, and he caught Wonka's shoulder, pulling him closer. They kissed each other, long and deep. When they pulled apart, the chocolatier looked slightly embarrassed. Sheepishly, he lifted the finger he'd trailed down Charlie's face, exposing the slight blue smear on his glove.

"You had ink on you," he said, by way of explanation. Raising the finger to his mouth, he licked the ink off, smiling a little at the taste.

Charlie glanced down at the pen he was using. His own fingers were already stained blue from the countless formes he'd needed to sign. Raising the pen to his lips, he sucked the nib into his mouth, letting the decadent flavor of perfectly ripe blackberry ink wash over his tongue. Wonka swallowed at the sight, cheeks flaring faintly pink. Smiling, Charlie set the pen aside, knowing his tongue would now be as blue as his signature.

"Maybe I should do the paperwork more often," he said.

"I sure wouldn't complain," Wonka said. They smiled warmly at each other, and Wonka tapped the stack of papers in the inbox. "Look at this!" he said. "When I left this morning, this stack was higher than my head. You're making good progress, Charlie."

"I don't mind it," Charlie said with a shrug. Paperwork was hardly the most exciting task in the factory, but he did feel a certain satisfaction in watching the pile diminish, especially since he knew it would make Wonka happy. "How's the nut room coming?" he asked. Yesterday morning, the Oompa-Loompas had reported finding a hairline crack in the large pipe that distributed the walnuts to the squirrels who sorted them. A minor concern, all things considered, but one that couldn't be left unattended.

"The crack worsened since yesterday," Wonka said with a shrug. "We ended up replacing the whole pipe. That's okay, though -- I had the Oompa-Loompas make the new one out of the same glass we use in the elevator. It won't be breaking again."

"That's for sure," Charlie said.

Wonka studied him fondly for a moment, then smiled. "Charlie," he said, "when we exchange gifts tonight, I'd like to give you yours in private."

All at once, Charlie remembered the gift he'd made for Wonka, and he felt his cheeks grow bright red. "Me too," he mumbled.

Curiosity glimmered in Wonka's eyes, but he only nodded and smiled. "Okay," he said. "Do you want to meet in my room before we go visit your parents? Say at six?"

"All right," Charlie said.

Wonka beamed at him, and leaning across the desk, kissed him quickly. "I'll see you tonight, then," he said, and left.

Charlie buried his face in his hands, thinking about the present he'd made for Wonka. For the first time, he wondered if it had been a good idea. Perhaps he still had time to make something different, something a little bit safer . . . but no, it would take him most of the afternoon just to finish up the paperwork. He couldn't possibly invent something charming, romantic and delicious in the hour or so he'd have before meeting Wonka. The gift he'd made would have to do, as silly as it seemed now. Biting his lip, Charlie hoped that Wonka would like it.

Six o'clock came far too quickly, and the staircase down to Wonka's rooms had never seemed so short. Charlie traveled them slowly, wishing he'd never get to the bottom. The small, foil-wrapped package in his pocket now seemed insignificant to celebrate their first Christmas together as . . . Charlie bit his lip, uncertain what to even call them in his mind. "Boyfriend" seemed a ridiculously common word to be applied to Willy Wonka, and they weren't lovers, not yet. Charlie blushed to think of that changing. He searched for another term, but found none, and the bottom of the staircase was already in sight. Heart-pounding, Charlie stepped into the corridor and knocked on Wonka's door.

Wonka opened it immediately, as though he'd been waiting on the other side. "Come in," he said, smiling nervously at Charlie. He moved to one side, and Charlie stepped past him, into the sitting room. Wonka locked the door behind Charlie, and turned to face him. His gloved hand hovered uncertainly in the air between them before settling on Charlie's shoulder. Feeling unaccountably awkward, Charlie leaned forward and kissed him quickly.

"You changed," he said, smiling at Wonka's clothes. The chocolatier had traded the plum colored jacket he'd been wearing earlier in the day for a cherry red one, and his shirt was decorated with a pattern of holly leaves and berries that might look ridiculous on anyone except for Willy Wonka.

"So did you," Wonka said, his lips quirking. Charlie glanced down at his black trousers and dark chenille sweater and blushed, feeling slightly underdressed next to Wonka. "I like it," Wonka assured him, stroking Charlie's shoulder through the sweater. "You're all fuzzy and touchable." Charlie felt his ears grow hot.

Wrapping an arm around his waist, Wonka led him to the sofa. A flat package wrapped in gold foil sat in the middle of the coffee table. Biting his lip, Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out his own gift, laying it on the table as well. Wonka's eyes lingered on it curiously. They glanced at each other nervously.

"You go first," they said at once.

Wonka burst out into giggles, and Charlie laughed, feeling some of the tension drain away. They hugged each other, still laughing. Resting his head on Wonka's shoulder, Charlie looked up into Wonka's face.

"No really," he said between chuckles. "You go first."

"Okay," Wonka said, still giggling. After a moment, he managed to compose himself, and sat down on the couch. Charlie nervously sat beside him. His breath caught in his throat as he watched Wonka reach for the package. Wonka examined it from every angle and sniffed at it curiously before carefully peeling away the foil to reveal a single chocolate heart. He studied it curiously, smiling at the twinned W's stamped into the surface.

"Taste it," Charlie whispered, wondering if Wonka could hear his heartbeat.

Lifting the chocolate to his mouth, Wonka bit into it, his eyes drifting shut as he pushed all of his other senses aside, concentrating solely on taste. A slight smile touching the corners of his mouth as he chewed. Wonka swallowed, and Charlie bit his lip for the verdict.

"Magnificent," Wonka murmured, his eyes still at half mast. "A complicated flavor. Dark, but sweet, with a faint hint of . . . roses?" He glanced at Charlie for confirmation, and Charlie nodded. "The texture is perfect," Wonka said. "It's one of the best truffles I've ever eaten."

From Willy Wonka that was high praise indeed, but Charlie felt himself drooping in disappointment. "It didn't work," he said flatly. "I don't understand it. It worked on the Oompa-Loompas."

Curiosity shimmered in Wonka's eyes, and he turned the half-eaten truffle in his hand to study it. "What was it supposed to do?" he asked.

"I increased the anandanide levels in the chocolate to trigger a higher endorphin rush," Charlie muttered, now embarrassed for having even come up with the idea. "It was supposed to make you feel like you were in love."

Wonka stared down at the chocolate in his hand and then, unexpectedly, he started to laugh.

"It's not that funny," Charlie muttered, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back against the sofa.

Eyes sparkling, Wonka set the chocolate on the table and leaned back beside him. "Well of course it didn't work, you silly ass," he said, still giggling.

"But I did the chemistry!" Charlie protested. "The Oompa-Loompas tested it."

Still smiling, Wonka shook his head, and reached for Charlie's hand. "It worked on the Oompa-Loompas," he said, "because they weren't already in love."

Charlie's breath caught in his throat. Wonka lifted the hand he held and brought it to his own heart.

"You make me feel that way, Charlie," he whispered, all traces of laughter gone from his voice. "It doesn't take chocolate. Didn't you know that?"

"I . . . I'd hoped," Charlie said, suddenly finding it hard to speak. "I wasn't sure."

"My _dear_ boy," Wonka said, cradling him close. "I'm sorry. I thought you knew. You said you did." His eyes grew distant for a moment, and he gripped Charlie's shoulders tighter, as if for balance. "I . . . I love you," he whispered, only hesitating a bit on the dreaded word. "Of course I love you, Charlie. How couldn't I?"

Charlie felt tears prick his eyes, and he embraced Wonka, wishing he could somehow melt into the other man. "I love you too," he whispered. "Thank you."

Wonka held him for a long moment before finally pulling away. "You still need to open your present," he said with forced levity.

Charlie leaned in to kiss him quickly on the lips, and then he reached for the package on the coffee table. It was heavier than he'd expected. Wonka's eyes lingered on him as he unwrapped it slowly, revealing a metal box. Curiously Charlie searched for a catch, and found one. He lifted the lid off carefully. Inside the box lay a stack of papers.

"What's this?" Charlie asked, lifting them out.

The corners of Wonka's lips lifted in something too small and painful to be a smile. "Read it," he said.

Charlie's eyes scanned the first page and his mouth dropped open. "Mr. Wonka?" he said softly, unable to quite believe what he read. "I. . .I don't understand."

"Partners, Charlie," Wonka said. "This contract entitles you to half of Wonka enterprises. It will give you the legal possession of half of the factory."

He held out his hand for the papers, and Charlie handed them to him numbly. Wonka set the stack on the coffee table, and flipped through it quickly until he'd found the final page. Taking an elegant pen from an inner pocket of his frock coat, he signed his own name with a flourish across one of the lines on the bottom of the page. His eyes shining with sincerity, he pushed the stack of papers across the table and handed the pen to Charlie.

Charlie took the pen automatically, shaken from the trust that Wonka was offering. He studied the line at the bottom of the paper, biting his lip. His own name was typed neatly beneath it. All he had to do was sign, leave his own, more modest, signature next to Wonka's. Charlie's fingers tightened around the pen. Something like dread churned in his stomach. For a moment, his hand hesitated over the paper. Wonka's eyes burned into him. Charlie glanced up at him, then down at the paper, and all of a sudden, his next action seemed absurdly easy. Smiling broadly, he handed the pen back to Wonka, and left the stack of papers unsigned.

Hurt flashed in Wonka's eyes, and Charlie caught his hand to ease it. "Not yet," he said softly. "I'll be leaving in three days. I cant help run a chocolate factory from across the globe. When we're partners, I'm going to need to be here with you. I'll sign it when I come back. "

"Its your present," Wonka said a little petulantly.

Laughing, Charlie leaned across and embraced him. He pressed his lips lightly to the base of Wonka's throat. "You're my present," he corrected. "You're all that I wanted. More than I ever thought I'd have. You showed me that you trust me. That's just paper. It doesn't really mean anything. You do." Smiling, he drew back. "I want to live here with you and help you run the factory more than anything else in the world," he said, "but I'm not going to sign that until I'm able to follow through with what it means. The factory is too important to me. _You're_ too important to me."

He squeezed Wonka's hand, searching Wonka's face to see if he understood. Wonka's expression was indecipherable, his eyes clouded twilight, but at least the hurt had left his face. "I promised you I was going to come home," Charlie said. "And I mean it. When I come back, I'll sign them. Not before."

Wonka sat in silence for a long moment, thoughts flickering behind his eyes too quickly to comprehend. Finally, his lips quirked and the tension in the room dispersed. Wonka shook his head ruefully. "I really did choose my heir well," he said. "Maybe a little bit too well."

Charlie glanced sideways at him, unsure whether to be offended. Wonka smiled, easing the sting of the words. Kissing Charlie quickly, he reached for the stack of papers and set them back in the box.

"Sign it when you're ready to," he murmured, closing the lid and handing the box back to Charlie. "When you come home again."

"When I come home," Charlie echoed, turning the words into a promise.

* * *  
The rest of the week passed quickly. No matter how much paperwork Charlie finished, more always seemed to show up in Wonka's inbox. They had sales information to compile, and yearly maintenance to perform, and really, Wonka said, hadn't they better start getting ready for the Valentine's Day rush? Charlie's new chocolate hearts should be a smashing success for that particular holiday. Charlie did his best to take on half of the work, although he hadn't signed the papers giving him a partnership in the factory yet. He wanted Wonka to know his trust in Charlie hadn't been misplaced. He wanted Wonka to see how seriously he took the factory.

They spent each day flying from task to task, but Charlie loved every single moment of it. And no matter how busy things got, it seemed there was always time for them to steal a moment in the corridors, in a slow corner of the inventing room, in the chocolate room, as they left the Buckets' cottage after dinner.

On the night before Charlie needed to leave, Wonka knocked on his door.

"Come in," Charlie called listlessly, turning away from the suitcase he'd been packing. He'd been trying to remember his suitemates: the slight gap between Amy's front teeth, the light in John's eyes when he was ready to start an argument, Isabelle's soft smile, and the precise pattern of tattoos along Mark's neck. He'd been trying to work up some excitement for returning to campus, trying to make the prospect of leaving Wonka seem a little less terrible. But Charlie's life at Fuller College, like the entire world outside the factory, remained vague and insubstantial in his mind, however much he tried to remind himself of it. He felt like campus were a dream that had long since dissolved: only the factory was clear and vivid inside his mind. Only the factory seemed real.

The door opened and Wonka stepped inside. The sight of him cut through Charlie's sadness for a moment, but left a deeper pain in its wake. Smiling sadly, Charlie rose onto his feet to meet him.

"There you are," Wonka said softly, catching Charlie by the shoulders. He glanced over Charlie's shoulder at the suitcase open on the bed, and his smile momentary faltered. Charlie reached for Wonka's face, tilting it back towards him. Warmth brightened Wonka's eyes for a moment. He kissed Charlie gently, and pulling back, took his hand.

"I thought we might go for a walk," he said, trying to avoid looking at the suitcase on the bed.

Charlie nodded, also wanting to put some distance between themselves and his inevitable departure. "Ok."

Together, they walked out of Charlie's room and into the corridor beyond. They avoided the elevator by unspoken assent, wanting to prolong their time with each other as much as possible. Wonka's hand gripped Charlie's tightly. Wonka's eyes seemed infinitely far away.

Trying to ease the pain, Charlie said, "I got an idea for a candy mouthwash to go with your candy toothbrushes."

"Oh?" Wonka said, glancing at him sideways. His voice was noncommittal, but he squeezed Charlie's hand for a second, thanking him for the effort.

Charlie nodded, trying to keep his voice light. "We could make a mint-flavored soda that neutralized bad breath on contact," he said. "You wouldn't even have to gargle."

Wonka tilted his head to one side, considering the idea. A slow smile touched his lips. "Why stop at mint?" he said softly.

"We could make raspberry," Charlie offered.

"Chocolate," Wonka countered.

"Custard."

"Pistachio."

"Roast turkey!"

They burst out laughing, glancing sideways at each other. Wonka released Charlie's hand, wrapping an arm around his waist instead.

"It would be the end of all breath mints and all mouthwash," Wonka said, but the sudden burst of hilarity had ended. His smile softened, growing sad once more. Charlie touched his cheek.

"Come on," Charlie whispered, leading him down the corridor. Wonka's eyes widened when they started down the route to the chocolate room, and he glanced at Charlie curiously. "I thought we might go to the lake," Charlie said.

"I thawed it yesterday," Wonka warned him, nonetheless following along.

Charlie nodded; he'd seen the order in one of the numerous work reports he'd signed for the Oompa-Loompas. "I know," he said. "That's just how I want it."

They opened the door to the chocolate room and stepped inside, tiptoeing past the Bucket cottage and through the arched doorway leading into the lake. It was later than Charlie had realized -- Wonka's stars glowed in the darkness of the ceiling. No maintenance was scheduled on the lake tonight; the room was silent, save for the soft lap of soda against the swudgy shore.

Charlie led Wonka around the lake and to the far shore, where a blue candy rowboat bobbed in the soda, tied to a peppermint post. Wonka smiled, and stepped inside, moving carefully backwards to sit on the back seat. Holding the boat carefully, Charlie untied it and climbed in, taking the seat across from Wonka. He found the oars on the boat's floor, and set them carefully into the oar locks. Smiling at Wonka, he dipped the oars into the water, and pushed off.

The boat slid into the lake with a soft splash, leaving ripples in the soda behind it. Charlie rowed them slowly into the center of the lake, slowly relearning the feel of the oars in his hands. "How long has it been since we did this?" he asked.

"Too long," Wonka said, glancing over the side of the boat at the soda below.

The boat, like the lake, had been a present for Charlie's thirteenth birthday. Wonka had insisted that Charlie learn how to row, claiming that calming, repetitive movements stimulated creativity. Like many of Wonka's statements, it sounded a little dodgy at first, but proved to be correct. Charlie could trace some of his best ideas back to this rowboat. As he'd grown older, though, and started taking on more work in the factory, their rowing expeditions had grown less frequent. Charlie couldn't even remember the last time they'd been out in the boat.

He glanced at Wonka, intending to say something of that nature, but the sight of the chocolatier froze the words in his throat. Wonka sat quietly in the opposite seat, clasping his hands before him. He'd tilted his face down to study the softly rippling lake water. The brim of his hat threw his eyes into shadow, but the auburn highlights in his hair shone richly in the electric starlight, and something about the curve of his lips captivated Charlie. Sensing him watching, Wonka looked up.

"What?" he asked.

Charlie shook his head. Once he would have lied or changed the subject, but now, he thought it safe to tell the truth. "You're so beautiful," he whispered, wishing his words could do the man justice.

Wonka glanced up sharply, shock and disappointment flying across his face in quick succession. His mouth opened, then closed again, and he shook his head almost helplessly. After a second, he managed to regain control of his expression. His gaze on Charlie grew a bit more guarded. Frowning, he finally glanced away. "Poppycock," he muttered.

"You are!" Charlie protested.

Wonka didn't say anything, but his lips tightened and he wrapped his arms around himself. He'd drawn backwards on the seat, away from Charlie, crossing his legs at the ankle. He tilted his head a bit further downward, until his entire face was nearly hidden beneath the hat. They sat only a foot or so apart, but he suddenly seemed a hundred miles away.

Drawing the oars up behind him and setting them safely in the boat, Charlie leaned forward and touched Wonka's shoulder. "Willy?"

Wonka shook his head, avoiding Charlie's eyes.

"What is it?" Charlie asked.

"You don't have to lie to me, Charlie," Wonka said, swallowing. "It's okay."

"I'm not lying," Charlie said, squeezing the shoulder beneath his hand. "It's the truth."

A grimace of pain crossed Wonka's face, and he shook his head again, hurt and confusion evident in his eyes. "You're too nice, Charlie," he said, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

But Charlie shook his head. Leaning forward, he peered at Wonka's face beneath the top hat. "Do you want to know one of the first things I noticed about you?" he asked.

With visible effort, Wonka glanced up at Charlie, curiosity momentarily getting the better of him.

"Your skin," Charlie said. Wonka flinched, and Charlie rubbed the shoulder beneath his hand. "No, I'm serious. I'd never seen anyone as pale as you are. Even as a child, I thought it was beautiful. Your skin is like porcelain."

Wonka was gaping at him now, jaw hanging open. Charlie smiled at him, still rubbing comforting circles on his shoulder.

"And your eyes," he said. "You've got the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. Don't you realize that? They change color sometimes, when you're happy or upset. They can go from blue to violet to almost brown. I could stare at your eyes for hours."

Wonka bit his lip, looking stricken. Right now, those eyes were a kaleidoscope of color, emotions shifting in them almost too fast for Charlie to follow. Disbelief still reigned on Wonka's face, but beneath it, Charlie could glimpse another emotion starting to build -- a hesitant, fearful hope. A part of Wonka wanted almost desperately to believe him, Charlie realized. Hoping to help that part along, Charlie leaned closer, and caught ahold of Wonka's other shoulder.

"I love your lips," he said. "You know, for the longest time, I thought you used make-up. I couldn't imagine anybody naturally having lips as red as yours. They almost look like you've been sucking on cherry-flavored candy. I always wanted to know how they would taste. And then your _hair_\--"

"Charlie, stop it!" Wonka finally cried. He was still leaned back, doing his best to draw away from Charlie, but he'd uncrossed his legs, and his arms were at his sides now, bracing himself against the wooden seat. His chest lifted and fell with every breath. Wonka shook his head incredulously.

"I'm not, Charlie," Wonka said, looking pained. "I'm not any of those things. I . . . I'm a freak," he muttered. He tore his eyes from Charlie, blinking down at the lake. In his stomach, Charlie felt a slow spark of anger fan to life. How on earth could somebody as amazing as Willy Wonka feel so terrible about himself? Who could have convinced him to feel that way? Charlie didn't know the answer, but he'd have bet chocolate that Wonka's father had something to do with it.

Doing his best to keep his voice steady, Charlie said, "Willy."

Wonka shook his head, refusing to look at him. Releasing his shoulders, Charlie reached for Wonka's hat, setting it on the seat beside him. As always, Wonka looked more vulnerable without it, the pain in his face now clearly visible. He was shrinking back in himself, doing his best to widen the distance between them. Charlie pushed his hair back gently, then cupped his face with both hands.

"Willy," he said again. "Look at me."

Wonka hesitantly brought his gaze up to meet Charlie's. Staring intently at him, Charlie said, "Have I ever lied to you, Willy? You know me better than that. I love you. You're absolutely beautiful to me."

Wonka shuddered, hope and self-hatred battling in his eyes. Frowning, Charlie decided to abandon words altogether. He'd never been very good with them anyway. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to Wonka's.

The chocolatier resisted for a moment, stiffening beneath him, but Charlie insisted, trailing tiny wet, teasing kisses along his lips, until Wonka relented and opened his mouth, letting him inside. Deepening the kiss, Charlie slid forward off his seat, moving slowly so as not to rock the boat. Carefully, he sat on Wonka's lap. He felt Wonka start beneath him, and he hesitated, wondering if he'd gone too far. Then Wonka's arms rose up hesitantly to wrap around him, and Charlie smiled against the other man's mouth. That's it, he thought.

Releasing his hold on Wonka's face, Charlie returned the embrace, firmly stroking Wonka's back through his velvet jacket. Wonka surged up into the kiss at the touch. In response, Charlie reached around behind him, running his hands up beneath Wonka's jacket. He could feel Wonka's shoulder blades through his thin shirt and waistcoat, and he ran his hands over them, stroking up and down his back. Wonka was trembling beneath him, breathing in tiny gasps, and Charlie shivered, feeling a warmth beginning to stir inside him.

"You're beautiful to me," he whispered into Wonka's ear, and pulling back, smiled shakily at him. "Okay?"

He watched with some amusement as Wonka slowly opened his eyes, taking a moment to focus on him.

". . . 'kay," Wonka whispered, almost too quietly to hear.

Grinning, Charlie leaned forward and kissed him again. "Good."

Setting Wonka's top hat safely on the opposite seat, Charlie slid off of Wonka's lap to sit beside him. Wonka refused to relinquish his hold on him; curling closer, the chocolatier pressed his face into the crook of Charlie's neck. They held each other in silence for a long time, while the boat rocked gently beneath them.

After awhile Charlie said, "I don't want to leave tomorrow."

"I don't want you to either," Wonka said immediately, tightening his hold on Charlie.

Charlie sighed. "But I'm going to, aren't I?"

Wonka didn't answer. When Charlie dared to look at him, his face was infinitely sad. Charlie blinked back tears.

"We should say goodbye tonight," he said. "I'm not sure I could handle doing it in the morning."

"Are you sure?" Wonka asked, frowning at him. "I could go with you to the airport."

"Do you _want_ to go to the airport?" Charlie countered, feeling suddenly, fiercely protective. He couldn't bear to think of Wonka leaving the factory's safe walls only to watch him leave. If Wonka _had_ to deal with that, it should be here, where he had his inventions to distract him and the Oompa-Loompas to look over him.

Wonka hesitated a second too long, and Charlie kissed his cheek. "No," he said softly. "Don't do that to yourself. Everybody would be staring at us. You'd hate it. Besides, it will mean more by ourselves."

"All right," Wonka said softly, glancing away. Kissing him once more, quickly, Charlie pulled away and slid back into his own seat, handing the top hat back to Wonka for safekeeping. Wonka placed it solemnly upon his head, also reaching for his cane on the boat's floor. Settling the oars back in place, Charlie rowed them back to shore.

They walked in silence back to Charlie's room, drawing to a halt at his doorway. Charlie swallowed, feeling tears sting his eyes. They faced each other silently, both grasping for words. Finally, Charlie managed to force a smile.

"It won't be that long," he murmured. Pulling his watch from his pocket, he flipped it open. "Only two hundred and seventy-three more days."

Wonka nodded, smiling shakily at him. Stepping forward, Charlie wrapped his arms around him. Wonka cradled him close, as though he'd never let go.

"I'll call you," Charlie said. "And I'll write to you more often. It'll be different this time, I promise."

"Make sure that it is, young man," Wonka said, utterly failing to sound cheerful. Charlie swallowed. Leaning up, he kissed Wonka quickly, then pulled away.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too," Wonka said.

Kissing him one more time, Charlie released Wonka's shoulders, and reached for the door. "Goodbye, Willy.

"Bye, Charlie," Wonka said, managing a shaky smile.

And turning, Charlie slid into his room quickly, not wanting Wonka to see his tears.

* * *

When Charlie and his parents left for the airport the next morning, Wonka was thankfully nowhere in sight.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Reibish and Oddmanrush for beta'ing this chapter. Thanks also to Nuin for looking over the final draft and for graciously allowing me to use the name "Port City."

Charlie slumped against the window of the limousine as it worked its way northward through the Seattle traffic. His mind felt hazy, numb from fatigue and loneliness. He'd hardly slept on the long plane ride -- one of the babies on the flight had cried the entire fifteen-hour journey across the Atlantic. Even upon reaching New York and transferring to the (thankfully baby-free) flight to Seattle, he'd only been able to doze fitfully. His mind kept waking him up with thoughts of Wonka, of the expression on Wonka's face when they'd said goodbye to each other. How on earth was the chocolatier handling his absence? Biting his lip, Charlie thought back to the last words he'd said to his parents.

_"Now you make sure you behave yourself," Mrs. Bucket says briskly, tightening Charlie's scarf around his neck and double-checking his boarding pass for the hundredth time. All around them, the holiday crowds at the airport flow by. Even amidst the bustle, though, several faces turn to glance in their direction. Once or twice, a camera flash goes off. In this town, Charlie is nearly as famous as Wonka._

"Mum," Charlie chides, cocking an eyebrow at her, and she chuckles weakly, realizing what she's just said.

"I'm sorry," she says kissing his cheek. "You're all grown-up now, I know." Gently she touches her fingers to her cheek. "Even when you were young I didn't need to tell you that. You were always so well-behaved." Sniffling a little, she glances downward, dabbing at her eyes. After a moment, she regains her composure enough to look up at him again. "I'm proud of you, Charlie. I hope you know that. You're doing the right thing, going back."

Charlie nods stiffly, unable to meet her eyes. In his pocket, his hand grips the watch Wonka gave him, fingers sliding over the engraved message. Until we meet again . . ._ Leaving Willy Wonka doesn't feel like doing the right thing. Charlie wonders if he's making the biggest mistake of his life._

His father smiles gently at him. "Take care, son," he says, wrapping an arm around Charlie's shoulders. "It won't be easy, but you'll manage. We're Buckets, Charlie. We always pull through."

Charlie swallows, unsure how to reply. "Thanks, Dad." His father squeezes his shoulder, then lets go.

"You should get moving," Mr. Bucket says. "Your plane will be here soon."

Charlie nods, glancing up at the clock on the wall. He can't quite bear to take his watch from his pocket, to use it as the time keeper it is.

"Bye, Dad," he murmurs, hugging his father briefly. "Bye, mum."

He brushes his lips against her cheek, and she holds him close for a second. "Goodbye, darling."

Charlie blinks back tears as he pulls away. Turning, he starts towards the security line. He manages a step, maybe two, before the aching in his heart makes him turn around again.

"Mum! Dad!"

They rush forward, touching his shoulders.

"What is it, Charlie?" his father asks.

He swallows as the tears finally starting to break free. "Take care of him," he manages finally. "Please. Take care of him while I'm gone."

They glance at each other. Smiling sadly, his mother touches his cheek. "We will, Charlie," she promises. "As much as he'll let us."

In the limo, Charlie stared out the window, remembering how pale and gaunt Wonka had looked when Charlie had first returned from campus. He hoped that his parents could keep their promise. As much as Charlie's heart ached at the thought of spending nine months away from Wonka, he knew, at least, that he'd be going back to classes, excitement, friends. Wonka had only the Oompa-Loompas and Charlie's parents. Charlie gripped his pocket watch tightly. He hoped that would be enough.

_He's lived alone before,_ he reminded himself. _He'll be okay now._

The worry persisted, though, a deep and throbbing ache that flowed into the sea of his own sadness and seemed to pulse in every part of his body. Charlie gripped the pocket watch until it hurt, trying not to cry as he stared at the limousine window. He'd missed Wonka before, but that was before he'd kissed him, before he'd stroked his hair and held him when he cried. He'd missed Wonka back when Wonka seemed a dream, beautiful, distant, and entirely unreachable. That was nothing, now, to missing the living, breathing presence of the man who needed Charlie just as much as Charlie needed him. _Please,_ he thought, unsure to whom he was praying. _Please, just let him be okay._

Yet even through the sadness and worry, Charlie couldn't help but recognize the small mountain pass that led into Quid Venit county. The trees grew taller and the hills steeper as they made their way north, and soon, Charlie glimpsed the first exit sign for Port City. He hugged himself as the limo turned off the freeway and started down the road that would take them to Fuller College. Once they reached campus, the journey would be over. His nine months without Wonka would officially begin. Charlie closed his eyes, wishing that he could somehow speed time forward until he were returning home again. He wondered if such a trick would be beyond Wonka; he'd need to remember to ask the chocolatier sometime.

The limo parked outside of Walden Hall, and the driver came around to open Charlie's door. Swallowing, Charlie climbed out of the limo, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions that bombarded him at the sight of the tall, brick building where he'd lived these last three months. Sorrow and longing hit him the hardest, but he'd had too much fun these last few months for Walden Hall to feel entirely hateful to him. Charlie shook himself out of his daze, feeling the limo driver's eyes upon him. Squaring his shoulders, he reached for his suitcase.

"Do you need help with that, son?" the driver asked.

"No, thank you," Charlie said, and tipped him. Alone, he walked up the familiar path to Walden Hall and unlocked the door of the dormitory.

Gretchen, his RA, sat at the front desk, sorting through a stack of paperwork.

"Hi, Charlie!" she called, grinning up at him.

He waved at her and hurried past before she could ask how he was doing. Turning the corner, Charlie continued up the stairs to suite 213. The door was closed, for once. He set his suitcase on the floor, and dug into his jacket for his keying. As usual, he found the correct key immediately: the flat, startlingly modern dorm keys stood out sharply against the intricate skeleton keys Wonka preferred at the factory. Unlocking the door, Charlie stepped inside -- and immediately found his arms full of a bouncing, beaming Amy.

"You're home!" she cried, shooting him her gap-toothed grin. She'd gotten her eyebrow pierced over the break and her spiky blonde hair had been tipped in blue. But she looked comfortingly familiar, and to his surprise, Charlie felt an answering smile rise up to meet hers.

"Hi," he said, hugging her back.

"Charlie!" Mark called, emerging from his bedroom. He'd taken the braids out of his brown hair and it now fell freely around his shoulders. John followed along behind him, wearing a clean shirt for once, but otherwise unchanged. "We're glad you're back, man!"

Mark wrapped an arm around his shoulders in a brief hug, and John grinned at him, lightly punching his arm.

"Where's Isabelle?" Charlie asked, glancing around.

John shrugged. "She's not back yet."

"She's probably still saying goodbye to Zach," Amy said, rolling her eyes. Charlie smiled weakly, and pulled his suitcase in from the hall. Leaving it sitting in the living room, he plopped onto one of the orange sofas, studying his suite again with fresh eyes. The ugly dorm-issued furniture, the cinderblock walls, and the wide bay visible beyond the sliding balcony doors reminded him again how far he was from the factory. But behind the fresh wash of homesickness and worry -- oh please, let Wonka be okay! -- he felt something else, an emotion almost too surprising to recognize. Relief.

"It's so good to see you guys," he said, realizing for the first time that he'd missed them at the factory.

Amy grinned at him, perching on the arm of the sofa. "You too!" she said. "How was your break?"

Charlie felt a shy grin spreading across his face as he thought of Willy Wonka. "Wonderful," he said softly.

Amy leaned forward to ask him about it, and Charlie held his breath, wondering what he should tell her. Fortunately, a key turned in the lock, and Amy glanced up, distracted. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief that quickly turned into a gasp of alarm as Isabelle stepped inside.

Instead of her usual thrift-store dress and combat boots, she wore a faded pair of jeans and a baggy Fuller College sweatshirt. Her skin looked ashen and dry. She'd gained weight. It looked like she'd been crying recently. Worst of all, her hair, her long, dark hair, had been raggedly chopped to her chin.

"Isabelle?" Amy asked, rising to her feet. Charlie, too, stood, his lips pursing in concern.

At the sight of them, Isabelle's face crumpled,and she hugged herself tightly. "Zach and I broke up," she choked.

* * *

"Her name is Tanya," Isabelle spat, glaring at her beer can. "She's an accounting major. They met on a rock-climbing trip. He's been fucking her for two months." She sipped her beer and scowled, glaring out the window. "God, I'm such an idiot," she muttered.

"He's the idiot!" Amy said at once, squeezing Isabelle close. Amy sat beside her on the sofa, an arm wrapped around Isabelle's shoulders. On Isabelle's other side, Charlie sat awkwardly, patting her shoulder and wishing he could help. Mark curled on the floor by her feet, and John sat in the chair across from them, studying them intently.

"You were too good for him anyway," Amy said.

Isabelle sniffed, looking out over the water. Feeling useless, Charlie squeezed her shoulder. He'd spent his whole life amongst pain, in some form or another. As a child, he'd lain awake at night listening to his parents whispered conversations, his stomach tightening as they fretted over his grandparents' health, the week's groceries, the monthly bills. He'd responded the only way he could, by being obedient, by being good, by refusing to complain when his stomach clenched from hunger and his shoes grew too tight. His parents had never asked for more from him -- they'd never even spoken to him about those worries. They'd have been horrified to know that he'd heard them. In a way, Charlie supposed his parents were good practice for Willy Wonka -- he, too, always refused to speak of his sadness, though Charlie sometimes glimpse it seething beneath his plastic smile, an ocean of pain topped with waves of forced cheer. Until Christmas break, he'd never even seen Wonka cry before. But neither Wonka nor his parents gave him any idea what to do with Isabelle. The three of them carried their sorrow silently, doing their best to bear it alone. Isabelle's tears flowed down her face freely, though. Her sadness radiated off of her in waves. Charlie felt small and uncertain in the face of the overwhelming strength of it, unsure how to help her. He sipped his beer and squeezed her shoulder, wishing he could impart some comfort through his touch.

"Maybe this happened for the best," Amy was saying. "I never thought he was smart enough for you. You could do a lot better."

Isabelle swallowed, touching the ring finger of her left hand. She'd removed her promise ring, but a band of shockingly white skin showed clearly on her tan finger, a harsh reminder of it. "I don't want to do better," she whispered. "Oh God, how he could he do this to me?"

In his room, Charlie heard his phone ringing. Isabelle glanced at him, almost panicked.

"It's probably my parents checking to make sure I made it home," Charlie said, squeezing her shoulder. "I'll call them back."

She managed a smile, and leaned against him, scooting away from Amy. Surprised, Charlie wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She wore some sort of floral perfume that tickled his nose. They listened in silence as Charlie's phone rang until his voice mail picked it up.

"It's been two weeks," Isabelle said hoarsely. "I should be over this by now."

"You can't help the way you feel," Charlie said. Mark nodded.

"You know what the worst thing is?" Isabelle asked, glaring at the bay. Charlie shook his head. "I still miss him," she said, sipping her beer. "I still miss the bastard."

* * *

It was dark by the time Charlie made it back to his bedroom. They'd sat with Isabelle until sunset, when she'd finally stood and insisted on going for a walk alone. He hoped the solitude might help her where they'd failed. Charlie dragged his suitcase into his room and, spotting the phone, remembered the call he'd missed. Lifting the receiver, he dialed the number for his voice mail, expecting to hear his mum's voice. Instead, he heard Wonka's.

"Charlie!" the chocolatier said, trying and utterly failing to sound cheerful. "Hi! It's me. Um, Willy. Huh. I thought you'd be home." There was a long pause while Wonka evidently tried to think of something to say. Charlie's stomach clenched with guilt. "Um, I miss you," Wonka said. "Call me later, if you want to. Or I suppose I can try again. Bye." The last few words were spoken quickly, as though Wonka were trying to end the message as soon as possible.

Biting his lip, Charlie saved the message, horrified that he'd made Wonka deal with his voice mail recorder. How upset must Wonka be if he'd bothered calling at all? The chocolatier hated telephones. Sick with guilt, Charlie left his voice mail and punched in the phone number he knew by heart. Wonka answered on the first ring.

"Hello?" He sounded younger than usual, breathless with anticipation, and Charlie felt the distance between them aching like a wound. He swallowed, wondering how long Wonka had been waiting by the telephone.

"Hi, Willy," he murmured.

After a suspiciously long pause, Wonka finally said, "My dear boy." His voice was rough, thick with sorrow, and the sound of it cut like a knife through Charlie's chest.

"Good God, I miss you," Charlie whispered. He could hear Wonka swallow over the phone. "I . . . I got your message," Charlie said. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when you called. I --"

"That's all right," Wonka said. "You're here now."

Still gripping the phone tightly, Charlie sank down onto his bed. He tried to picture Wonka as he must look now, the curve of his hair just touching the phone. He swallowed, feeling almost dizzy with loss and longing. Unbidden, his body was stirring from the sound of Wonka's voice.

"How are you doing?" Charlie asked.

"I feel like you've been gone for years," Wonka murmured. Charlie winced, pressing the phone to his cheek. More than anything, he wanted to hug Wonka close, erase the sadness in his voice. His mind flashed suddenly to their last night together, Wonka leaning against his shoulder while Charlie stroked his hair. With the thought came another mental image: Wonka pressing warm and wanting up into his kiss. Charlie bit his lip as his erection swelled, and feeling guilty and half-panicked, he glanced up at the bedroom door to make sure it was shut. Uncertainly, his fingers drifted to his belt, toying with the W-shaped buckle. With difficulty, he managed to force his mind back to their conversation.

"I thought that time moved faster as you got older," Charlie managed, trying to make his voice sound light. His fingers had deftly unbuckled his belt, and were working on the button of his trousers. _What am I doing?_ he wondered, even as Wonka chuckled, a sound that ignited the blood in his veins. He carefully unzipped his trousers as Wonka spoke again.

"It seems you managed to prove me wrong, my dear."

Charlie chuckled as he reached inside his pants, cupping himself through the thin cotton fabric of his underwear. Guilt surged through him at the touch -- what was he thinking, touching himself while talking to the prim and proper chocolatier? Along with the guilt came relief, though, too sweet to ignore. Charlie pressed the underwear aside and wrapped his fingers around himself, giving in to the welcome pressure of his hand. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine that the hand stroking him was cooler, gloved in latex. He grew even harder at the thought.

"We should declare it a holiday then," he said, oddly proud of how steady he'd managed to keep his voice. He was stroking himself lazily now, refusing to give into the urge to fall into the rhythm he knew would finish him off most quickly. His fingers ran gently up and down his shaft, toying with the head.

Wonka said, "Don't be greedy, Charlie. You've already got a holiday named after you. You don't need two."

"Very well," Charlie said, smiling a little as he thought of February second, known as Charlie Day throughout the factory. Every year, the Oompa-Loompas took great delight in reenacting the fateful factory tour, gleefully singing of the downfalls of the other four children and celebrating Charlie's (eventual) decision to move into the factory. They'd managed to turn the tale into a musical that might have been worthy of Broadway.

Wonka hesitated a second. His breathing carried over the phone. All thoughts of the Oompa-Loompas disappeared from Charlie's mind; he bit his lip, thinking of what he could do to make Wonka's breathing deepen, hurry up. Again, he thought of their night on the lake. He'd been sitting on Wonka's lap, he thought, doing his best to keep his own breathing steady as he started to pump in earnest. It would have been so easy to keep going, to slide Wonka's coat off his shoulders and reach for the buttons of his waistcoat. Good God, why had they _stopped?_

When Wonka finally spoke again, his voice was quiet, almost shy. "Um . . . how are _you_ doing?" he asked.

Charlie swallowed, sick with guilt. His fist was pumping quickly up and down his shaft now, and he felt himself drawing closer. "I'm doing all right," he said softly. "I miss you though."

"I miss you too," Wonka confessed. "How many days do we have?"

"Two hundred and seventy-one," Charlie said, not needing to reach for the pocket watch. He'd already memorized the number.

Wonka swallowed. "It will go fast, though," he said, sounding like he were trying to convince himself as well as Charlie.

Charlie bit his lip as he came, feeling his semen spill into his hand. "It will," he gasped, falling limply against the pillow as the shudders overtook him. He breathed deeply through the aftershocks, angling the phone so that Wonka couldn't hear. Oh God . . . what on earth would Wonka think if he knew what Charlie had just done?

"Good," Wonka said with forced cheer. He hesitated a moment and then breathed, "I love you," into the phone.

"I love you too," Charlie murmured, feeling even guiltier as he reached for a tissue to wipe his hand.

"It's late," Wonka said regretfully. "I should probably go."

"Yeah," Charlie said. "I understand." He hesitated a second, and then asked shyly, "Um, I'll call you tomorrow?"

"Okay," Wonka said, sounding pleased. "Good night, Charlie."

"Night, Willy," Charlie said, and the phone clicked dead.

Charlie set the phone on his night stand, and sighed, studying the crumpled tissue in his hand. The sadness washing over him was almost as thick as his relief, and both were shadowed by the guilt. What type of person wanked off on the phone? Charlie tossed the tissue into his wastepaper basket, covering it with a few sheets of notebook paper, just in case one of his suitemates happened to glance inside it. Sliding his pants off, Charlie climbed into bed. He was too tired to sort through his emotions, or to think of what he'd done. With a sigh, he pulled the duvet cover over him. One day down, he thought, as his cheek touched the pillow. Only two hundred and seventy-one more to go.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Reibish and Oddmanrush for beta'ing this chapter. Thanks also to Nuin for looking over the final draft.

"Could anything possibly be more disgusting?" Amy said, wrinkling her nose at the turkey casserole steaming behind the glass counter in the cafeteria.

"Lots of things are be more disgusting," Charlie said at once. "It could be snozzwhanger steak, or whangdoodle dung, or even burnt grackle pie." Nonetheless, he too passed up the turkey casserole, glancing around the cafeteria for something slightly more edible. Strange, he thought, how quickly one got used to having choices. He remembered a time when turkey casserole would have been a welcome relief from cabbage soup.

"You're so weird!" Amy laughed, making a face at him. She too had been surveying the cafeteria, and seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion Charlie did.

"Pizza?" she asked, glancing up at him.

He nodded, sighing. "Pizza," he said. As one, they started towards the pizza counter at the opposite end of the cafeteria, wearily setting the lukewarm slices onto their trays. It was the fourth time they'd needed to resort to pizza that week. The cafeteria food wasn't necessarily _bad_, Charlie thought, turning to the beverage counter to get a glass of juice. It was just monotonous, the same options day in and day out. Gathering up a fork, he smiled ruefully to think of how spoiled he'd gotten. Three square meals a day was nothing to complain about, after all. Even so, he couldn't help thinking that his mum's cabbage soup tasted a fair sight better than the cafeteria pizza did -- and it had to be healthier, too.

"Are you ready?" Amy asked. She'd already balanced a glass of soda on her tray, and now stood surveying the crowded cafeteria, looking for an empty table.

Charlie nodded, setting the juice on his tray. "Yeah."

"Come on," she said. "I think I see Isabelle."

They threaded their way through the crowded dining hall until they reached the corner table where Isabelle sat, picking at a salad while half-heartedly flipping through a book of poetry. Amy slid her tray in beside her, and Charlie took the seat across from them.

"Young lady," Amy said, "What did I tell you about sitting by yourself?"

"I thought you two would be in class," Isabelle said, setting her book on the table and pushing her glasses up. Charlie and Amy had an anthropology class together on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.

"It was cancelled," Charlie said. "We're supposed to be in the library working on our research project."

"Well aren't you two living dangerously," Isabelle said, and took a bite of her salad. Her voice was as wry as it always was when she fell into her sarcastic moods, but the old sparkle in her eyes was gone. Two weeks into the quarter, and she still hadn't quite got over her break-up with Zach. Charlie glanced at Amy, who pursed her lips in concern.

"What about Mark and John?" Amy asked. "Why couldn't you eat lunch with them?"

"Mark wasn't hungry," Isabelle said with a shrug. "John wasn't home."

"John's gone?" Amy asked, looking surprised. Charlie, too, raised his eyebrows -- aside from class and Game, John never left the suite.

"He was wearing cologne, too," Isabelle said, finally smiling a little. "I think he might have had a date."

"Good for him!" Amy said, laughing. "I hope so."

Charlie smiled, inwardly sharing the sentiment. John was a nice guy. He deserved to find somebody. He thought about saying something to that effect, but glancing at Isabelle, decided against it.

Amy seemed uncomfortable too. "I think I'm done," she said, pushing her tray to the side and standing up.

Isabelle and Charlie stared at her. "We just got here," Charlie said.

Amy shrugged. "I'm not as hungry as I thought," she said. "Besides, I need to start my anthropology project."

"It's not due for another week!" Charlie said.

"Well it's better not to fall behind," Amy said. "I'll see you guys later." And turning, she walked with her tray to the dishwasher's window.

"She's been acting so crazy lately," Isabelle said, shaking her head.

Charlie glanced at her, surprised. Amy hadn't seemed crazy to him -- well, no crazier than usual, anyway.

Isabelle smiled at him. "Of course, you've been acting pretty strange yourself," she said.

Charlie blushed. "What?" he stammered.

"You're staying up later, you're talking on the phone more often, you're writing letters all the time . . . spill, Charlie. Something's different."

Charlie blushed."I've been talking to W -- Mr. Wonka," he said.

Her smile softened. "You two are talking again?" For a moment, the tilt of her head and the small half-smile almost reminded him of Wonka. The line of her hair curving against her chin only strengthened the resemblance -- she'd had her choppy cutting job straightened into a neat pageboy. Thinking of Wonka, a wave of longing swept over Charlie, and he gripped his fork, glancing down at his plate. For a second, he was tempted to tell her the truth. She'd been in love, surely she could understand how he felt.

But glancing at Isabelle's face, he changed his mind. She was still so misearble about breaking up with Zach -- it would be mean to rub his happiness in her face. The moment passed. He remained silent. Isabelle stabbed her salad with her fork, shaking her hair from her face and breaking the momentary resemblance to Wonka. Aside from the hair, they looked nothing alike -- Isabelle's face was much rounder than Wonka's, and her eyes were dark, where his tended to be violet.

"Zach e-mailed me today," she said darkly. Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. "He found some of my old things that I left at his parents' house. He wanted to know if I wanted them back." She trembled with indignation, her lips drawn into a thin, white line.

"What did you say?" Charlie asked.

"I told him to burn them," she said, gripping her fork until her knuckles whitened. "They've been forever tainted by his presence." She glanced at him over the tops of her glasses. "Do you think I'm going crazy?" she asked.

"Of course not," Charlie said at once.

"Sometimes I still miss him so much," she whispered.

Charlie reached across the table and touched her hand. He tried to imagine how horrible he'd feel if he lost Wonka.

"I think he took the best parts of me with him," she murmured, staring at the white band of skin on her finger.

Charlie squeezed her hand. "Don't say that," he said. "It's not true."

She sniffed a little, looking at him through watery eyes. "Thanks, Charlie," she said. "You're a good friend."

Isabelle pulled away, and Charlie let her go, fighting down the knot of worry in his stomach. She poked at her salad for a few minutes longer, and finally managed something resembling a smile.

"Come on," she said softly. "Let's go back to the dorm."

Outside the rain was falling in thick, wet sheets, bitterly cold from the January wind. Charlie shivered and pulled his jacket more tightly around his shoulders, and Isabelle ducked down into the dubious shelter of her hooded sweatshirt. Once again, Charlie wondered why nobody in Washington carried umbrellas. They hurried back to Fuller Hall, shivering from the cold.

Charlie reached the door first and fumbled for the key in the rain. He held the door open for Isabelle, and slipped in behind her, hugging himself to get warm. Shivering, they tromped up the stairs to the suite. When they got there, the door was closed. Reaching for the handle, Charlie found it locked as well.

"That's odd," he said, finding the seldom-used key to his suite. They never locked the door to the suite unless none of them were home. Isabelle only shrugged, hugging herself to get warm. Unlocking the door, Charlie swung it open -- and froze.

Mark and Amy were kissing on the sofa. He was nibbling her neck, and she had her hands up his shirt. But when the door opened, Mark stopped what he was doing, and Amy opened her eyes.

"Oh shit," she breathed.

For a shocked moment, the four of them just stared at each other. Charlie recovered first, his years at the factory having prepared him to deal well with unexpected surprises.

"Are you two . . . _dating?_" he asked, his voice rising in disbelief.

Mark and Amy glanced at each other. After a second, she nodded. "Yeah," she said. "We started going out over vacation. Mark visited my house for a few days."

"Were you ever going to tell us?" Isabelle said, her voice sounding tight.

"Of course," Mark said. "But we weren't sure how to tell you. I mean, we didn't want to upset you, after what happened with Zach."

"Thanks for the consideration," Isabelle sniffed, sounding annoyed.

"Are you okay with it?" Amy asked, glancing up at Isabelle with concern.

"Yeah," Isabelle said. "Why wouldn't I be?" She didn't sound fine, though. Her voice was taut, and her eyes sparked with anger. Concerned, Charlie reached for her shoulder. She shook him off, heading towards her room. "I need to study for my history test," she snapped.

Helplessly, Charlie glanced at Mark and Amy. They hesitated, looking at each other with identically unsure expressions. After a second, Amy sighed, and got to her feet.

"I'll talk to her," she said, and followed Isabelle into their room.

Mark sighed, and dropped back against the sofa. "Are you cool with this, man?" he asked, looking at Charlie.

"Yeah," Charlie said, realizing with the words that he was. "I'm just surprised."

Mark chuckled grimly. "We wanted to tell you," he said. "Really we did. But with Isabelle so weird right now . . ." he trailed off, glancing at the door to the girls' room. They could hear Amy's muffled voice behind it.

"It's okay," Charlie said. "I understand."

Mark smiled, relieved. "Thanks," he said. "In a way, I'm kind of glad you guys found out. It sucks trying to keep something like this a secret, you know."

"I know," Charlie said.

Mark glanced at him curiously, and Charlie hesitated. It hadn't felt right to tell Isabelle about Wonka, but perhaps he could share it with Mark. His suitemate seemed pretty open-minded, and he knew about keeping secrets. Maybe he would understand. _But would he?_ a darker voice in Charlie's mind asked. Telling Mark would lead to a lot of questions -- about Wonka, about the factory, about their future together. Charlie glanced at Mark, hesitating, but before he could speak, the door to the girls' room swung open. Amy emerged, looking tired. Behind her, Isabelle followed, looking angry and embarrassed. She clutched a book in one hand like a lifeline.

Amy dropped onto the sofa beside Mark, and Isabelle sat stiffly in one of the big orange armchairs. They all looked at her, and she blushed, glaring at the floor.

"I'm all right with it," she said. "I really am. It's just going to take me awhile to get used to it. Okay?"

"That's cool," Mark said, nodding. Charlie crossed the room to stand by her, settling a hand on her shoulder. She closed her eyes for a second, leaning back into the touch. Rolling her head back, she smiled her thanks at him.

The door to the suite opened, and John stepped in. True to Isabelle's word, he had dressed up. Instead of his usual jeans and t-shirt, he wore black slacks, and a nice button-up shirt. He studied the four of them, taking in the tension in the room, and they, in turn, stared slack-jawed at him.

"And where have you been?" Amy asked, raising her eyebrows.

He grinned. "Gretchen and I went out for dinner," he said, sounding a little bit smug.

"You and Gretchen?!" Amy laughed, clapping her hands. "That's perfect!"

"Congratulations, man!" Mark said, giving John a high five.

"Jesus," Isabelle said, shaking her head slightly. "Is _everybody_ coupling up?"

Charlie held his breath, afraid that they might turn their attention to him. But instead, John glanced from Amy to Mark, and a slow grin broke over his face.

"Let me guess," he said. "You finally told them."

"You knew?!" Mark said, sitting up in the chair.

"Well yeah," John said, rolling his eyes. "I'd have to be an idiot not to notice. Um, no offense," he said, glancing at the rest of the suitemates.

Amy snickered first, and then Charlie started laughing, then Mark joined in. Even Isabelle giggled a little bit, shaking her head ruefully. John just gave them all a slightly dubious expression, and stepped past them towards his room. Shoulders shaking with laughter and relief, Charlie gripped the back of Isabelle's chair to hold himself up. Everything really would be okay, he decided, breathing easier at the sight of all of his friends laughing toether.

* * *

A few hours later, Charlie withdrew back into the relative normalcy of his room. Reaching for his backpack, he dug out his cultural anthropology textbook. He settled into his desk chair, and reluctantly cracked open his WonkaBook. Amy was right, he thought, even if she had been fibbing to get some alone time with Mark -- he really should start working on his anthropology paper. Some students could pull long papers off in a single night, but Charlie wasn't one of them. He needed a lot of time, even for short papers. It didn't help that he hated writing them -- this time, he needed to research the death myth of a foreign culture. One thing Charlie had learned in college, was that he hated doing his own research! He'd never again take the Oompa-Loompas for granted.

Sighing, Charlie opened his internet browser, pulling up the campus library's home page. He still hadn't decided which culture to research. He supposed he might as well look at a few different creation myths, and choose the most interesting one. Trying to delay the inevitable for just a few moments, he opened up his e-mail instead. He didn't expect to have any messages -- aside from his suitemates, Charlie didn't really have any friends, and his suitemates never needed to e-mail him.

To his surprise, though, he did have a new message in his inbox. Curiously, he opened it.

>   
> From: WWonka@wonkachocolate.com  
> To: BucketC@fullercollege.edu
> 
> Subj: INTERNET CHOCOLATE!!!
> 
> Charlie! My dear boy, you must see the marvelous concotion I've created! It's going to be big, Charlie! Bigger, even, than Wonka's Wacky Watercolor Paints!
> 
> Do you see this link below? Open it, open it! Don't read another word until you do!

Smiling, Charlie clicked the link. It opened a new window -- all at once, his computer began to play music. Charlie laughed as the too-familiar strains of the Wonka welcome song blared out of his laptop's tiny speakers. Flashing purple letters at the top of the page said, "Wonka's chocolate is the best in the world! If you don't believe it, try some for yourselves!" And in the space beneath the lettering, the slow picture of a Wonka chocolate bar materialized.

Mike Teavee would have had a hayday talking about the scientific imposibility of transmitting chocolate through hypertext. Charlie simply did what Wonka had been training him for all these years. Reaching out, he took the candy bar, still surprised to feel that twinge of amazement as it slid off the screen and into his fingers. Even after so many years, Willy Wonka still managed to amaze him.

The candy bar was small, sized perfectly for Halloween. Charlie smiled -- that in itself was a gift. He'd been badgering Wonka for years to start making miniature candy bars. All of the other candy makers did it, he argued, and surely the increased sales for Halloween and Christmas would offset the expense of creating a new chocolate bar assembly line, in miniature. Wonka, in turn, had steadfastly refused, arguing that to give a child a taste of Wonka's chocolate without allowing him the full bar was a crime venturing on murder. It seemed, though, that he'd reconsidered the size if he were giving the candy bars away for free -- no doubt, he figured that one taste of Wonka's chocolate would be enough to send any child scrambling to the store for the real thing. Charlie supposed that he was probably right.

Unwrapping the candy bar, Charlie bit into it, smiling as the sweet taste of home melted over his tongue. Out of curiousity, he refreshed the page, only to find the picture of a wagging finger meeting him.

"No second helpings!" the page now read. Below it was a list of Wonka retailers in Port City. Charlie shook his head, wondering how Wonka had managed to pull that off.

Backspacing rapidly, he returned to his e-mail screen.

"It's great!" he typed. "You'll be able to reach a whole new consumer base!"

Then a new idea occured to him, and he grinned. "By the way," he added. "I need to research the death myth of a foreign culture for school. Could you get the Oompa-Loompas to send me theirs?"


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Reibish and Idol Hands for beta'ing this chapter.

Charlie stared at his computer screen, trying to make the next sentence come to life. He'd spent the last few days working on his anthropology essay, scribbling on it during every free minute, but somehow, he couldn't make the Oompa-Loompas ' story seem real. A knock on his bedroom door interrupted his efforts, and he turned in his desk chair, grateful for the distraction.

Isabelle leaned in the open doorway, a dark look on her face. She wore her purple pajama pants, fuzzy pink slippers, and a faded "Vagina Monologues" t-shirt.

"I've been sexiled," she said, stepping into Charlie's room and dropping onto his armchair.

"What?" Charlie asked.

"Amy asked if I could sleep in Mark's bed tonight," Isabelle said. "She and Mark want some alone time."

"Is John home?" Charlie asked. Once upon a time, he wouldn't have needed to ask, but John had been spending a lot more time away from the suite since he started dating Gretchen.

Isabelle nodded. "Yeah. He's playing _Age of Empires_ again, but he told me he'd turn off the sound when I wanted to go to sleep." She looked a bit glum; Charlie didn't blame her. With all of the dirty clothes, crisp wrappers, gaming books, CDs, and beer bottles littering the floor, he'd be afraid to set foot in Mark and John's room, let alone spend the night there.

"You could have said no," he said gently.

"I'd have felt guilty," Isabelle said. "I know how it feels to be dating somebody and never have a chance to . . . you know."

Charlie nodded wryly, thinking of Wonka. How long would it be before they even got a chance to kiss again?

"I was lucky Zach lived so close," Isabelle said softly, echoing Charlie's thoughts.

Charlie nodded thoughtfully. He felt a bit guilty about having his own room. He'd never be put in Isabelle's situation, nor would he need to put somebody else in it -- not that he would ever have the chance. From the way Wonka had ignored Charlie's request for him to visit Washington, any hypothetical roommates Charlie might have could sleep safe and sound.

Isabelle sighed, bouncing slightly on Charlie's armchair. As she moved, it shifted beneath her, perfectly conforming to the shape of her body. She glanced down at it, distracted, and poked her finger into the arm. They both watched as the cavity she'd left slowly began to fill.

"Where on earth did you get this thing?" Isabelle asked, running her hand over the now-smooth arm of the chair.

Charlie shrugged. "Will-er-Mr. Wonka had it lying around someplace."

He felt his ears grow hot, and he ducked his head, hoping that she wouldn't realize he was lying. The chair was made from a raspberry red slime that Wonka had captured on Venus and brought back to earth during their last space expedition aboard the Great Glass Elevator.

In its active phase, the slime covered the planet's surface in great seas. Wonka had scooped some into a canister the size of a soda can, intending to take it home as a souvenir. But back onboard the elevator, they discovered that the slime changed upon exposure to oxygen. It swelled into a firm, jelly-like substance that could be molded, shaped, and even cut into pieces.

It was also completely edible -- and delicious, Wonka said, although Charlie had never tried it. He always felt bad for the slime, for all that Wonka swore it was a vegetable, not an animal. Fortunately for Charlie (and the slime), Wonka had yet to find a cost-productive way to breed it in quantities suitable for mass production.

Isabelle sighed, drawing Charlie's attention from the chair back to the person who sat on it. "Do you mind if I hang out for awhile," she asked. "I don't really want to be by myself."

"Sure," Charlie said at once.

"What are you working on?" she asked him, glancing up at his WonkaBook screen.

"My anthropology essay," he said. "Want to hear a story?"

"Okay," she said, settling back in the chair. Charlie took his WonkaBook into his lap so he could turn in his desk chair to face her. In a dramatic voice, he started to read.

"Once upon a time," he read, "A tribe lived deep in the jungle. They were a blessed tribe, for they never got sick. They never died. But despite that, they were completely miserable, for the jungle that they lived in was filled with the most horrible insects, and the sound of their buzzing kept the poor villagers awake all night long. And though nobody would die if they didn't eat anything, their stomaches were constantly growling from hunger. They couldn't stand it. Unfortunately, the only thing they had to eat were green caterpillars, which tasted revolting.

"Finally, in desperation, the daughter of the tribe's chief went deep into the jungle and prayed for a deliverance from their misery. She fasted and prayed for a week straight, and on the seventh night of her praying, a young man stepped out of the jungle.

"'I can help you,' he said, 'but think carefully. If you accept my offer, you will be inventing Death, and that will change everything.'

"The chief's daughter said she'd need to talk the stranger's offer over with her tribe, so they agreed to meet again in three days. She returned to her tribe, and told her father what the stranger had told her. For three days, the tribe's elders argued over the stranger's proposition. But in the end, they all agreed that anything, even death, was better than constant misery. So the chief's daughter went back to the grove where she'd met the stranger, and sure enough, he was there waiting for her.

"'I agree to your offer,' she said.

"The stranger handed her a gleaming knife. He told her to plunge it into his heart, and then bury his body where they stood.

"Tearfully, she lifted the knife and plunged it into his heart. And so Death was invented. Then she buried his body where he'd told her, and went back to tell her tribe what she had done.

"There, she found the village in a state of chaos. Even as she had been walking home, one of her brothers had been captured by one of the monstrous beasts that roamed in the jungle. He had died, and the villagers were panicking. People had started getting sick. Nobody knew what to do. Worst of all, the gift the stranger had promised them was nowhere in sight -- the sound of buzzing insects still filled the air, and though the villagers had searched every inch of the village, they'd yet to find anything better to eat than red beetles. The tribal leaders decided that the young man must have been an evil spirit who'd been sent to trick the girl.

"The tribe's shaman followed the girl back to the grove, hoping that he could reason with the spirits to undo what she had done. But when they got there, they discovered a tiny green sprout poking out of the ground where she'd buried the stranger's body.

"The shoot grew taller every day. Soon, the entire village had gathered around to watch it with apprehension, wondering what might come out of the ground that could possibly outweigh death. Within a few weeks, the sprout had grown into a mighty tree. Before long, huge beans started growing on it, almost as big as the villager's heads.

"Finally, some of the bolder young hunters grew tired of waiting for the beans to drop. They climbed the tree. It was a difficult journey, because it was many times larger than their heads. At the top, they discovered huge beans growing, and they knocked them down.

"The villagers back on the ground pried open the beans, and bit into them. It was the most delicious thing they'd ever tasted! They passed the beans around, and everybody in the village got a bite. They decided to name their new bean the cocao bean, and they all cheered for the chieftain's daughter. If death was the price they had paid for this treat, they all agreed it had been well worth it.

"So that's how chocolate was created," Charlie said.

Isabelle burst out laughing. "You're so weird!" she said. "Is that a real story?"

"Of course it's real," Charlie said. "It's a myth from the Oompa-Loompas."

"The Oompa-Whatsists?"

"Oompa-Loompas," he said. "From Loompa-Land." He neglected to mention that they didn't live there anymore -- Wonka had warned him many times that the identity of his workers must remain a secret.

But Isabelle just shrugged. "Oh," she said. "I've never been good with geography."

Charlie smiled, relieved. Then the cuckoo clock in the corner struck one. Isabelle sighed, standing up and stretching.

"I should go," she said.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" Charlie asked. "You could sleep in my bed if you wanted. I could sleep on the couch."

She glanced at him, and a faint blush drifted over her cheeks. "I'm fine," she said. "You're too nice, Charlie." She hugged him quickly, and left, leaving the faintest traces of her perfume behind her -- the sweet and fruity scents of bergamot and cardamon. Swallowing, Charlie realized that he was vaguely disappointed that she'd left. He glanced up at Wonka's picture,closing his eyes and focusing his mind on the chocolatier instead. Wonka's smile. Wonka's eyes. Wonka's embrace, the curve of his lips,the sensitive spot behind his ear . . .

Charlie closed his eyes, wishing he could call Wonka. The chocolatier might be waking already . . . he went to bed late, but woke up very early. But his essay was due tomorrow, and calling Wonka wouldn't get it done. Sighing, Charlie turned back to his computer. Once again, he started to write.

* * *

On the other side of the Atlantic, Willy Wonka was indeed awake, and facing problems of his own. He stood outside the chocolate room door, working up the courage to step inside.

"This is stupid," he muttered, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. Beside him, the cluster of Oompa-Loompas filing into the chocolate room to start their work shifts nodded. Wonka frowned, not at all cheered by their agreement.

He didn't have to be here, he reminded himself. He was the boss, after all, he could have the chocolate-room foreman report to him in his office, or better yet, on the factory roof, where no one would even think of looking for him. No need, really, to venture inside the chocolate room today, even if it was time for the room's monthly inspection. Why did he need to inspect the chocolate room anyway? Sure, it was the heart of the chocolate factory, the room which created the delectable chocolate that flowed through his entire factory and on which he depended for his livelihood, but that didn't mean that he, personally, needed to inspect it. The foreman could do it just as well as he -- well, perhaps not _just_ as well, but nearly so. Wonka had designed the room so carefully that it practically ran itself anyway.

Wonka hesitated in the corridor, idly fingering the striped glass ball atop his cane. He only needed to give it a quarter turn to the left, and it would activate the intercom system. He could alert the foreman of the change in plans, turn around, return to his rooms, and maybe catch up on some much-needed sleep. Decided, Willy gripped the glass ball in his hand, only to hesitate as another thought occurred to him.

Maybe they were expecting him to cancel the inspection. They were crafty, those Buckets, much smarter than they let on -- and thank goodness for that, otherwise he'd never consider putting the factory in Charlie's hands. Mr. and Mrs. Bucket could be waiting outside his room right now, ready to pounce on him when he returned to his room, already defeated from giving in and canceling the inspection.

Wonka's fingers spasmed around the cane, and it clattered to the floor with a loud bang. As one, the group Oompa-Loompas filing into the chocolate room stopped and stared at him. Wonka could practically see song lyrics forming in their eyes.

"Oops," he giggled, and retrieved the cane. Steeling himself, he gripped it like a sword, and pushed through the crowd of Oompa-Loompas into the chocolate room, ready to fight, or run, or maybe both.

The Bucket cottage was dark. They must be still asleep.

Wonka relaxed, feeling a real smile spread across his face to replace the fake one he'd worn in like a shield. What a silly ass he was, tiptoeing around his own chocolate factory like a little boy sneaking candy behind his papa's back! He was a grown man now, he reminded himself, and what's more, a rich and successful _candyman_ in charge of the most marvelous chocolate factory in the whole world. He didn't need to worry about the Buckets.

Twirling his cane, Wonka scanned the chocolate room with a discerning eye, pleased to note that everything looked as scrumdiddilyumptious as it always did. He just needed to find the foreman, and the inspection could begin.

"Good morning, Willy!"

Wonka froze mid-step, feeling the blood freeze in his veins. Through a force of effort, he turned around, pasting a smile onto his face.

"Mrs. Bucket!" he said, trying to sound pleased.

She beamed at him from the riverbank where she sat with her husband and the chocolate room foreman. A checkered picnic blanket was spread over the grass. As Wonka watched, the foreman directed a group of Oompa-Loompas to unload a picnic basket and start dishing out its contents. The traitor, Wonka thought.

"We thought we'd eat breakfast outside today," Mrs. Bucket explained. "Won't you join us, Willy?"

Wonka looked at the Oompa-Loompas, who were efficiently dishing out plates of eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, fried bread, tomatoes and mushrooms on the checkered blanket. He looked at Mr. and Mrs. Bucket, radiating smiles and parental worry.

With a sigh, he swept his coat out of the way, and knelt down on the blanket. He'd always thought himself a particularly wise man, and wise men knew when they'd been outnumbered. He accepted a plate from Mrs. Bucket, and sighed, poking at the eggs with his fork. She was watching him eagerly, making sure that he actually ate.

Morosely, Wonka brought a bite to his mouth, chewing it automatically. This was the third meal he'd been co-opted into sharing with the Bucket family this month, and already, it was shaping up to be as painful as the others. Mrs. Bucket cut her sausage with the same, sharp precision that Charlie did, and Mr. Bucket sat the same way, balancing his plate on his lap. The two of them even looked like their son. They had the same dark hair, the same pointed faces. Charlie's biggest difference was his magical, sparkling eyes.

Wonka sighed, wishing more than anything that Charlie was here. He always made these family meals so much more tolerable. Charlie knew what to say to those kind, parental remarks his parents made, and knew how to keep the conversation flowing. Wonka, on the other hand, felt stiff and awkward, too formal and far too strange. Without Charlie here to ground him, he felt himself slipping further and further into the isolation that had marked his first fifteen years in the factory. When Mrs. Bucket asked him how the monthly sales were going, he was so flummoxed that he had to shovel a fork full of sausage into his mouth just to give himself time to think.

"Sales are going well," he said finally, once he'd swallowed and his silence had stretched on long enough. The Buckets looked at him with expectant faces, and he flushed, glancing down at his plate. "Quite well," he ammended.

Mrs. Bucket nodded, pleased. "I got a letter from Charlie yesterday," she said.

"Oh?" Wonka said, carefully keeping his expression neutral. Charlie had written to him as well, but he certainly didn't want to talk about _that_ letter with the boy's parents.

Mrs. Bucket smiled. "He sounds so happy there," she said. "He and his friends are going to a concert in Seattle next month.

Wonka soured, stabbing a mushroom. Charlie had mentioned no such thing to him.

"He's growing up so fast," Mr. Bucket said. "I can't believe he'll be nineteen next week."

Mrs. Bucket answered him with something kind and motherly, but Wonka hardly heard her. He stared at his plate, too shocked to think. In his efforts to perfect television chocolate of late, he'd practically forgotten about Charlie's birthday. Wonka pushed aside his plate and stood, his thoughts whirring about too fast for him to follow.

"Why Willy, where are you going?" Mrs. Bucket said.

Wonka beamed at her. "Sorry," he said. "So little to do, and so much time! The chocolate room inspection won't wait forever."

"Will you join us for dinner?" Mr. Bucket asked.

Wonka shrugged. "We'll see," he said diplomatically. He'd learned from his papa that when grown-ups say "we'll see," they usually meant "not on your life."

He gave them his most winning smile, and turned away, waving for the chocolate room foreman to join him. He hoped the Buckets couldn't see the panic on his face. What on earth could he do for Charlie's birthday?

He'd given the boy plenty of presents over the years: toys, and chocolates, and even a soda lake. But those had been useful, platonic, presents, the kind a candyman gave to his heir. None of them seemed appropriate now that Charlie was his . . . Wonka sighed, unsure what to even call the boy in his mind. His love, he decided, after a moment's worth of thought.

Closing his eyes, Wonka pictured Charlie, all alone in Washington state. (He conveniently did _not_ picture the friends Charlie had mentioned.) What would Charlie want most of all on his birthday, the first birthday he'd celebrate away from home?

Wonka felt a small smile tug his lips as an idea occurred to him. It was a brash idea, and probably a stupid one. Those were usually his best kind. And best of all, Charlie would never expect it.

A polite cough interrupted his thoughts. The chocolate room foreman was standing in front of him. Wonka had no idea how long he'd been waiting after Wonka had summoned him.

"Cancel the chocolate-room inspection," Wonka said brightly, and the foreman nodded, crossing his arms over her his chest and bowing. His stoic expression didn't change, but Wonka caught a glimmer of surprise in his eyes. Crossing his own arms, Wonka dipped into a brief bow, and started towards the Great Glass Elevator. Charlie's birthday was in a week, and he had so much planning to do . . .

 

* * *

"And that's it for today," Dr. Jones said, switching off the overhead projector. "Remember to pick up your essays before you leave. Class dismissed!"

Charlie filed his class notes into his binder and stood, following the throngs of students making their way to the front of the lecture hall to pick up their papers. He couldn't wait to see his grade -- he'd put almost as much effort into this assignment as he had into the many projects Wonka had given him over the years.

At the front of the class, Dr. Jones had arranged the papers into three piles, sorted by name. Charlie waited in line for the first pile, and finally got a chance to sort through it, glancing quickly at the names in the top left corner. Banks, Bartholomew, Biggs, Breyers, and finally, Bucket. Catching his name, Charlie snatched it up, stepping aside to let the students behind him have a turn. Breathlessly, he glanced at his title page, then flipped through to the end, where Dr. Jones had written his grade.

It was an F.

Charlie gaped, wondering if he'd read it wrong. He screwed his eyes shut, and then opened them again, hoping that the red pen marks would miraculously have changed. But no, the F was still there in Dr. Jones's scrawled handwriting, silently mocking all of the effort Charlie had put into his paper.

Swallowing, Charlie looked up and caught sight of Dr. Jones, surrounded by a group of students talking to him about their papers. Numbly, Charlie joined in at the fringes, waiting for his turn to talk to Dr. Jones. Finally, he reached the front of the line, and the professor turned to smile at him through his beard. He was a small, balding man with kind blue eyes, wearing a tweed jacket with patched elbows and jeans.

"Hello there," Dr. Jones said. "Is it . . . Basket?"

"Bucket," Charlie said. "Charlie Bucket."

"Of course," Dr. Jones said, chuckling. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if there might be some mistake," Charlie said, holding out his paper. "I mean, I worked so hard on it."

Dr. Jones took the paper from Charlie, flipping through it quickly. "Ah yes," he said. "I remember this one. It's quite imaginative, but I'm afraid you ignored the assignment guidelines. You see, you were supposed to research a myth, not make one up."

"But I did research it!" Charlie said. "It came from Loompa-Land!"

Dr. Jones started to laugh. "Loompa-Land?" he chortled. "There's no such place!"

Charlie opened his mouth, and then closed it. If Wonka were there, he'd know what to do. But Charlie was only himself, alone and shy. Dr. Jones patted his shoulder.

"Look," he said. "It was well-written and imaginative. I'll give you that. If this were a creative writing class, you'd have gotten an A for sure. And I've got to hand it to you for using the elements we discussed in class. It's clear you know the theory, if nothing else. But anthropology is more than theory, Charlie. It's observation! You can't just make up situations in your own mind to apply the theories to -- you need to see how they play out in the real world. Why, ideally you wouldn't even be doing research in the library. It would be best if you learned it first-hand from a member of the culture you're observing."

"But I did!" Charlie protested, almost in tears.

Dr. Jones patted him on the shoulder. "Look," he said. "This is a stressful time of the quarter. You're not the first student to fudge on the research because you didn't have the time. Academia is all about balance, Charlie. You've got to learn to make some time for work as well as play.

"But I spent hours on it!" Charlie said.

Dr. Jones shook his head. "The stress of writing a paper can be tough, Charlie. Especially in your first year. You know, we have a counseling center on campus if we ever need to work through some of it."

"I don't need therapy!"

Dr. Jones smiled as if he didn't quite believe him. "I know you're worried about your grade," he said. "But you've been doing well before this. One bad paper won't entirely sink your ship. Why, if you can manage A's on the final two essays, you might even pull out of the class with a low B."

Charlie swallowed. He realized, then, that nothing he said would ever sink into the other man's skull. For all that he'd been teaching them how to observe other cultures, Dr. Jones could hear, but he didn't know how to listen. Nodding stiffly, Charlie clutched his paper in his hand and escaped back to his dorm.

How had Wonka handled it all these years? No wonder he stayed in the factory! Charlie was half tempted to call him up and beg to return right now.

Charlie was nearly in tears when he reached Walden Hall, but none of his suitemates were home. Frustrated, he picked up the phone and dialed Wonka's number. The phone rang and rang, and he leaned against the wall, waiting for Wonka to answer. After twenty-seven rings, though, he had to conclude that Wonka wasn't in his rooms. The chocolatier never took that long to answer the phone, not anymore, at least.

Sighing, Charlie stepped into the kitchen, going through the cupboards for raw ingredients. It was there that his suitemates found him later, covered with cocoa powder and pacing angrily while his cocoa puff pastries baked.

"What's wrong?" Amy asked him, sniffing the air.

Wordlessly, Charlie pointed to his paper, which was flipped up to reveal the large F scrawled across it.

"Oh Charlie!" Isabelle said, crossing the room to hug him. "And after you worked so hard on it, too!"

"Man, that sucks," Mark said, flipping through the paper. "I've had classes with Dr. Jones before. He can be a really tough grader."

Amy nodded, sitting at the table and nonchalantly studying the oven timer. "Why did he fail you?" she asked.

"He said I made up my research," Charlie said, scowling. "He said there's no such place as Loompa-Land."

His suitemates glanced at each other.

Gently, John said, "Um, Charlie, there's not."

"There is!" Charlie said. "I know there is! We, well, Mr. Wonka, that is . . ." he trailed off, realizing how close he was to revealing the identity of Wonka's mysterious workers. "We had a housekeeper from there," he said sullenly. That was close enough to the truth -- the Oompa-Loompas did clean the factory.

Mark opened his mouth. Charlie had an uncomfortable feeling that he was about to get lectured about having a housekeeper at all. Isabelle must have thought so too, because she hurriedly cut in.

"Well I believe you, Charlie," she said. "Who knows? Maybe you can appeal it somehow."

"I don't think so," Charlie said. In order to do that, he'd need to prove that Loompa-Land existed, and that would mean explaining the Oompa-Loompas. Charlie couldn't betray Wonka like that.

Amy stood up, and patted his shoulder. "Well," she said, "there's only one thing left to do."

"What's that?" Charlie asked, turning to take his pastries from the oven as the timer sounded. Amy was right behind him, in line to pluck the first one.

"Wegumnagetchoodruk," she said, around a bite of warm, gooey chocolate.

"What?" Charlie said.

She swallowed, dabbing chocolate off her lips. "We're going to get you drunk. How old are you?"

"Eighteen," he said. He'd be nineteen tomorrow, but there was no point in mentioning that.

"Damn," she said. "Too young to go to Canada, then."

"We can stay in," Mark said. "I've got some Everclear in the cupboard."

Charlie swallowed. He wasn't sure this was a good idea. "What about Gretchen," he said, glancing at John. His suitemate usually hated to break the rules.

But John only shrugged. "She's off duty tonight," he said. "We're going out to dinner. Just be quiet."

"Quiet we can do," said Amy, opening the cupboard door. She pushed aside a box of Frosted Flakes and a stack of Top Ramen packages, and emerged with a bottle of Vodka. "Here we go!" she said.

Charlie took the bottle from her and, opening it, sniffed it cautiously. He'd never tasted vodka before.

"This smells terrible!" he said, pulling away. "We're really going to drink this?"

"Sure," Amy said. "All we have to do is disguise the flavor."

Charlie glanced from her to the chocolate puffs still cooling on the counter. Making them hadn't diffused his frustration the way he'd hoped it would. "You just leave the flavor to me," he said.

* * *  
Three hours later, Charlie sighed and settled back against the sofa, taking another long sip of his drink. He'd managed a fruity concoction that tasted of sunlight and summer days, all fresh fruit and sugar. Wonka would be proud, he thought, taking another sip of it. Perhaps they could even manufacture it. The chocolatier had wanted to break into an adult consumer base.

In the kitchen, Isabelle poured herself another drink from the pitcher Charlie had made, and wobbled out into the living room to collapse onto the sofa beside Charlie. Mark and Amy had disappeared into the girls' room long ago.

"This is delicious," Isabelle said, sipping it slowly. From the bedroom, a rhythmic thumping sound began.

Charlie blushed, trying not to look at Isabelle. He was uncomfortably aware of the heat of her body beside his, and of the smell of her perfume. He thought of Wonka. How he'd love to pull the chocolatier into his bedroom! He'd start with Wonka's jacket, and then move on to the buttons of his waistcoat, slowly stripping him down to . . . Charlie frowned, trying to imagine what would come next. He'd hardly even seen the chocolatier in his shirtsleeves! Charlie couldn't begin to imagine him naked.

A warm hand curled around Charlie's wrist, interrupting his thoughts. Charlie shook his head, and glanced at Isabelle. She was gazing up at him, her eyes dark and serious.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"Nothing," Charlie said uncomfortably. He shifted on the couch, hoping that she hadn't noticed the burgeoning indication of where his thoughts had been headed. She smiled softly, a little unfocused from the alcohol. A strand of her dark hair had fallen out of place and stuck to her cheek. Charlie brushed it aside, and she sighed, leaning against him.

"Here we are again," she said. "It seems the two of us always wind up together."

Charlie nodded, unable to meet her eyes. The thumping from the bedroom had grown louder, now. Faintly, he heard a muffled moan. He shot a sideways glance at Isabelle, who smiled at him in return.

"Everybody seems to be hooking up," she said. "Mark and Amy. John and Gretchen." Her hand was stroking little circles on Charlie's wrist, leaving trails of warmth where they touched. Charlie realized that he'd never felt the touch of Wonka's bare hands before. Would they be warm like Isabelle's, or cool, like the skin of his face?

"Maybe they know something we don't," Isabelle said.

"What?" Charlie looked at her. She'd moved closer now, and the sweet and spicy of her perfume filled his nose. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his neck.

"Don't be coy, Charlie," she said, and kissed him.

For a second, he froze in shock. Isabelle's lips were soft and warm, and the line of her hair tickled his cheek, exactly the way that Wonka's did. Charlie opened his mouth, to protest, he thought, and she flicked her tongue out to meet his. She tasted like chocolate and cherries, utterly irresistible, and without thinking, he pulled her close, reaching up to touch her hair. It had been so long since he'd kissed somebody, held somebody close like this.

She caught his hand and pulled it to her breast, and he squeezed it, marveling at how easily it fit into his hand. She was climbing on top of him now, angling her head to kiss him more deeply. With his free hand, he reached to run his fingers through his hair. It was soft and smooth, so very much like Wonka's.

Isabelle sighed against his lips and reached for the button of his corduroys. Caught up in the kiss, Charlie didn't even realize what she was doing until he felt her slender hand slip inside his waistband and brush against his erection.

His eyes snapped open and he pulled away, practically falling off the sofa in his haste to get away from her. Isabelle blinked up at him curiously, her eyes muted from the alcohol and the kiss.

"What is it?" she asked, running a finger up his chest. Her lips were quirked in a small half smile.

Charlie swallowed. His mouth felt dry, and he thought he might throw up from guilt. He couldn't believe what he'd been doing, what he'd almost allowed her to do.

"I can't," he said.

"What?" she said. "Of course you can."

He shook his head, unable to look at her.

She bit her lip, pulling away from him. Her eyes filled with hurt, and she buried her face in her hands. "Oh God," she said. "I'm sorry. I . .. I thought you liked me."

"I _do_ like you," Charlie said, realizing it even as he spoke. He felt a faint stab of guilt with the words. Did loving Wonka mean that he couldn't be attracted to anyone else? He'd never even wondered about it before.

Isabelle was looking at him, hurt and confused. "I don't understand," she said.

Charlie thought of Zach and winced. Suddenly he felt like the cruelest person on the planet.

"There's somebody else," he said quietly.

Isabelle stared at him. "Who?" she said. "Aside from us, the only person you ever talk to is . . ." her eyes widened, and she trailed off, her face filling with comprehension. "Oh God," she said.

Charlie squeezed her shoulder. "Isabelle . . ."

"Shut up!" She pulled away, shaking him off. Her face was suddenly angry. "Don't you talk to me!" she said.

"Isabelle . . ."

She turned on him, blazing angry. "You lied to me! You lied to all of us!"

He looked away, wanting to cry. "I didn't lie," he said, swallowing.

"Whatever," she said. "Not bothering to tell the truth is the exact same thing." She stood uncertainly in the middle of the living room. Charlie knew that she wanted to escape to her room, but Mark and Amy were still in there. With a frustrated moan, she stomped to the entryway and grabbed her purse and jacket.

"Where are you going?" Charlie asked, standing.

"Away from you!" she snapped, and slammed the door. Charlie bit his lip, unsure whether or not to go after her. For a second, he was afraid she'd try to drive, but then he spotted her car keys sitting on the counter as usual. He sighed, feeling some of the panic drain out of him. At least she wouldn't get herself killed.

The bedroom door opened, and Mark stepped out, buttoning up his jeans. Behind him, Charlie could see Amy hurrying to slip a shirt over her bra.

"What happened?" Mark asked, staring at Charlie. "We heard yelling."

Charlie swallowed. He brought his glass to his lips and drained his drink. Numbly, he padded into the kitchen for another. Mark followed him, expectantly.

"We got in a fight," Charlie admitted, just as Amy emerged from the bedroom.

"What?" Mark said. "You and Isabelle? What about?"

"She kissed me," Charlie said, wondering why it sounded so ridiculous when he said it aloud.

"So?" Amy said. "She's been into you for months. You have to have noticed."

Charlie took another drink, shaking his head. Amy stared at him, anger and disbelief in her eyes.

"My God," she said. "You really are clueless, do you know that?"

She stomped to the living room and found her shoes beneath the couch. Charlie and Mark stared at her.

"What are you doing?" Mark asked.

"I'm going to go find Isabelle," Amy said. "She's probably freaking out."

"Should I come?" Charlie asked, putting his glass on the counter. Amy glared at him.

"No," she said. "I'm sure you've done enough already." She pulled on her jacket and rushed out of the apartment.

Mark glanced at Charlie sympathetically, but with confusion. "I don't get it," he said. "We all thought you were into Isabelle."

Charlie shook his head, taking another drink. "It's complicated," he said. He toyed with his drink, hesitating. He wanted to tell Mark about Wonka -- was Isabelle telling Amy right now? -- but after the way Isabelle had reacted, he was afraid. The moments stretched into silence, and after awhile, Mark stood, patting Charlie on the shoulder.

"Good luck, man," he said, and stood. "I'm looking for the girls."

Charlie watched him leave, feeling like a lead weight was on his chest. He drained his drink and reached for another, but the pitcher was empty. Charlie swallowed, wondering just how much he'd had.

Listlessly, he wandered back into the living room, glancing around the empty suite. His essay still sat on the coffee table where he'd left it. Somehow, his grade didn't seem to matter as much anymore.

Charlie imagined Isabelle telling Amy what a bastard he'd been to her. He wondered if she'd ever forgive him, if any of them would.

Swallowing, he staggered into his bedroom and picked up the phone. For the second time that day, he dialed Wonka's number. He gripped the phone to his ear as it rang, wondering how he'd possibly explain what had happened. Would Wonka be upset with him too?

The room span before him, and he caught the bed for stability, lowering himself to sit beside it. For nearly an hour, he sat there, gripping the headboard, while the telephone rang and rang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Charlie turns nineteen, but his birthday isn't anything at all like he'd expected. Will Isabelle ever speak to him again? And what, exactly, is Wonka's mysterious birthday present?
> 
> Thank you for reading! Questions, comments, and constructive criticism are always appreciated.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really recommend reading chapter sixteen again before moving on to this chapter, considering that it's been a good two years between updates. What can I say? They were a busy two years. Many thanks to for the beta!

A trumpet sounded in Charlie's ear, and he groaned, pulling the pillow over his face. That muffled the sound, but didn't block it entirely. Tiny footsteps marched in tandem on the carpet, and then Charlie woke with a start as something crashed into the bed frame. He opened his eyes, and after a second, managed to focus enough to make out the tiny grappling hook lodged into the side of his bedpost. As he watched, the clockwork marching band from his cuckoo clock began to scale it in a single-file line. Then he blinked, and there were two lines. Then one again. The small part of his brain that could still think wondered how they managed to climb and play at the same time.

As they climbed, the noise grew louder. Charlie whimpered, and crossed his arms over his ears. His head hurt, his throat felt dry, and he thought he was going to throw up. The band marched across the bed and onto his pillow, their music echoing inside his head. A trio of tiny drum majors beat out a rhythm beside his ear. Charlie swatted at them, trying to knock them down, but the three coalesced into one in front of him, and he missed. The drum major gave him a whack across the knuckles without losing a beat. Charlie felt the sting of it after a second. He wondered if he were still drunk. He couldn't remember how much alcohol he'd had after Isabelle left last night. With tremendous effort, he propped himself up on his elbows and squinted at the clock. The numbers swam in front of his eyes before he managed to make sense of them.

Eight o'clock. Time for class. The marching band finished Revele and started in on a Soussa march.

Charlie collapsed back onto the mattress and clapped his hands. Three times for stop. At once, the band quieted. With a last, sullen look, the drum major turned and started back towards the grappling hook. The rest of the band followed. Charlie pulled the pillow over his head and fell asleep.

* * *

Hours later, Charlie woke again to the throbbing beat of a stereo from the floor above. Every drumbeat pounded into his head, and he grimaced, raising himself up dizzily to look at the cuckoo clock in the corner. One o'clock. Charlie swallowed, wondering why his throat was so dry. Water. He needed water.

He looked at the glass he normally kept by his bedside, but it was empty. He must have drained it during the night. With a sigh, he clumsily pushed back the covers and sat, touching his feet to the floor. Goosebumps rose on his skin as it met the cool air, and he frowned, looking for his robe. At last, he found it, still hanging neatly on the door where he'd left it yesterday morning. His eyes focused on it, and he stood, then doubled over as his stomach heaved. Robe forgotten, he threw open the door to his room and ran to the bathroom in his boxer shorts. He gripped the sides of the toilet bowl and retched into it, feeling tears come to his eyes as his stomach emptied itself. The vomit burned his throat.

When the heaving finally stopped, Charlie shakily stood, only to catch sight of spiky blonde hair in the bathroom mirror. Amy stood in the doorway, glaring at him. All at once, the night before came back to him: Isabelle kissing him, screaming at him, leaving the apartment and slamming the door. Amy's eyes burned with accusation, and all at once, Charlie felt sick again. When he looked up from the toilet a second time, Amy was gone. He wondered what Isabelle had told her. Did she know about his relationship with Wonka?

Shakily, Charlie stumbled into the living room. Amy sat cross-legged on the sofa, flipping through a science textbook. She didn't look up at Charlie.

"Um, hi," he said, uncertainly.

She didn't answer.

"Did Isabelle --?" he started, and Amy slammed the book shut, startling him.

"Isabelle," she snapped, "didn't come home last night. I haven't seen her all day. She's not answering her phone calls."

Charlie swallowed, wishing his throat weren't so dry. He couldn't tell if the tightness in his stomach came from guilt or the vomiting. Amy was glaring at him again, and he swallowed, realizing he was still in his boxer shorts. Aside from his mother, nobody had seen him in his underwear before. He hugged himself.

"I'm sorry," he offered quietly.

Amy scowled. "I'm not the one who needs to hear that."

Charlie blinked. Tears burned at his eyes, and he turned away quickly, before Amy could see them. Casting through his mind for something to say, he found nothing. His head felt like somebody had stuffed his skull with bags of pink sheep fleece, all sticky and full of fuzz. There were stones in his stomach. Quietly, Charlie retreated back into the bathroom, where he kicked off his boxer shorts, stepped into the shower, and let the hot water sluice over him, washing away the alcoholic stink that clung to his body. He wished he could wash away the guilt as easily.

When Charlie finally felt brave enough to try the living room again, this time wrapped in the safety of his bathrobe, Amy was gone. She'd left a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the kitchen table. Was it a peace offering, he wondered, or simple pity? Either way, he felt grateful for it. He looked into the open door of the girls' room to thank her for it, but she wasn't there. The suite was empty.

* * *

Charlie skipped both of his afternoon classes. He'd never missed class before, and the guilt of that added to the guilt of Isabelle, forming a caustic guilt-soup in his stomach. He couldn't relax in the living area of the suite. Every pair of footsteps in the corridor outside made him jump, afraid that one of his suitemates would return. He wondered where Mark, Amy, and John were, if they'd found Isabelle yet. He wondered what she'd told them. The empty pitcher still sat on the kitchen counter, surrounded by liquor bottles, orange rinds and strawberry leaves, sticky drinking glasses, and a crystalline dusting of sugar. Charlie cleaned up slowly, methodically, even venturing into Mark and John's room to retrieve the pile of dirty dishes there. He tried to avoid looking at the couch -- every sight of it reminded him of sitting there with Isabelle.

He tried to call Wonka three times over the course of the afternoon, but the phone rang unanswered, almost as if Wonka knew that Charlie had, drunkenly, kissed Isabelle last night. Frustrated and sick with guilt, Charlie finall opened his WonkaBook and started to compose an e-mail.

"Dear Willy," he typed, and hesitated, unsure what to say. A shriek of laughter drew his gaze out the window, where two girls in hats and winter scarves gripped each other's hands and spun madly in the puddles of water collecting on the sidewalk, sending up a fine spray around them. It reminded Charlie of something Wonka would do, and a lump formed in his throat. He chewed his lower lip, and closed the message without saving it. Dropping onto the bed, he pulled the watch Wonka had given him from his pocket, and gripped it until the hinges cut into his hand.

187, the watch said. 187 days until he could go home. Charlie wished that he could fast-forward to 0. At that moment, he hated his mother for sending him away, and (although it made the guilt in his stomach feel even heavier) he hated Wonka for going along with it. Charlie would have given anything to be back home, in the factory, away from the confusion in his suite. For the first time, he thought he understood Wonka's need for seclusion; if Charlie could have locked himself away forever, he would have.

The phone rang just before dinner time. Charlie lunged for it, feeling his heart race. But the caller ID said, "Mum and Dad."

He hesitated, not wanting to talk to them. They'd know right away that something was wrong. He let the call go to his voice mail, and sat on his bed to listen to their message.

"Happy birthday, Charlie!" his mother sang.

In the background, he heard his father echoing, "Happy birthday!"

"You're probably out with your friends," his mother said. "I'm glad. We hope you're having fun. We miss you, darling, and we hope your package got there on time. Have a wonderful day!"

Charlie hugged himself as the machine clicked off. In his guilt, he'd forgotten that it was his birthday. He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling miserably. He thought of going downstairs to check the mail, but hesitated, knowing that anything they sent would only remind him of home, where the Oompa-Loompas sang to him every birthday and nobody was mad at him.

Finally, the rumbling in his stomach forced Charlie into the dining hall, where he found a seat by himself near the window. Forking food into his mouth methodically, he stared out at the grey and choppy bay and tried not think about Isabelle or Wonka.

Normally, Charlie hurried through meals when he ate by himself, but today he lingered in the dining hall, reluctant to return to the suite. Mark and Amy must be back from class by now. He wondered if Isabelle had come back. He wondered if she'd ever speak to him again. Finally, the dining hall workers started stacking chairs and wiping off tables, and Charlie sighed, slowly climbing to his feet. He plodded back to the dorm, glaring at the ground until Amy's frantic voice caught his attention.

"Charlie!" she cried.

He looked up to see her running towards him, Mark close behind her. She looked scared, and Charlie's heart suddenly hammered in his chest.

"What is it?" Charlie asked. "Is Isabelle . . ." he trailed off, afraid to finish his sentence.

"No," Amy said at once. "Well, we haven't seen her yet, but she texted me. She's fine. But --" she paused for breath, and Mark broke in, interrupting her.

"There's some guy waiting for you in the lobby. He's been there for hours."

"What?" asked Charlie. "Who?"

"He won't tell us his name," Amy said. "He's weird though. Do you want us to come in with you?"

"No," Charlie said, quickening his pace. Nonetheless, they trailed him as he unlocked the door to the building. Charlie kept his mind blank, refusing to wonder who might be waiting for him, or why. His heart beat double-duty in his chest, but he didn't allow it to hope until he emerged into the lobby and saw Willy Wonka standing beside the row of mailboxes.

Wonka turned to see him and smiled shyly, clasping his cane in front of him and tilting his head down until his eyes weren't visible.

"Charlie," he whispered. "My dear boy."

Charlie stared for a second more, dumbfounded, and then he was rushing forward and ploughing into Wonka with a desperate embrace. The older man caught him, startled, and then returned the awkward hug, wrapping wiry arms around Charlie and cradling him close. From the corner of his eye, Charlie could see his friends watching with slackjawed amazement, but right now, they were his lowest priority.

"Mr. Wonka," he whispered into the velvet coat. "Willy."

Wonka said nothing more, but hugged him closer. He smelled like the factory, peanuts and chocolate, and Charlie breathed in deeply, feeling some of the tension in his stomach ease. Finally, he regained enough control to pull away, holding Wonka at arm's length and blinking at him with slightly watery eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he choked.

"Happy birthday, Charlie," Wonka said, smiling shyly.

"I'm so glad to see you," Charlie murmured, loving the way Wonka's eyes glowed at his words. Charlie squeezed him close one more time, and then regretfully released him.

Turning, Charlie smiled at his friends and said, "Mark, Amy . . . this is Willy Wonka."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chapter:** Both of Charlie's worlds collide, and awkwardness ensues.
> 
> Thanks to everybody who's still bothering to read after all this time! Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.


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